


From There to Here

by thecockeyedoptimist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cameos, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Inspired by One Direction & the BBC Radio 1 Breakfast Show, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:29:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecockeyedoptimist/pseuds/thecockeyedoptimist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which our heroine arrives in a foreign town and finds herself in unexpected company.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine arrives in a foreign town and finds herself in unexpected company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This stemmed from long, long discussions between some 20-something friends, from as far back as 2013, about everything One Direction. What if they were celebrities on a smaller scale? What if the guys' friendship centred around another work structure which kept them together? What if someone was hired to document their lives and got sucked into their irresistible friendship forcefield, and then became even more attached for another reason?
> 
> What if this person could never stay?
> 
> A sideproject spanning nearly 2 years, countless WhatsApp marathon conversations, an inexplicable inability to use actual names in writing, and many, many perusals of the hairdos of young male singers.

Azra’s foot won’t stop tapping the floor, stopping only to pace the width of the long corridor. The security guard by the sliding door keeps glancing at her, giving her brief, forced smiles now and then. She knows she’s ridiculously early for her meeting, but she had woken up after four hours of sleep, had taken a run around the unfamiliar streets of her new neighbourhood, showered, and found herself at the front doors of the BBC Radio 1 building, smiling hard at the security guard as he took her details and signed her in.

His name is Tom. He gets off his shift at 8am. His replacement will be Geoff, with a G, who will take over and take her into the security office to have her press tags made.

She has the latest Murakami in her tote bag. _The Guardian_ has lauded it, _The_ _Telegraph_ is lukewarm, and the _New York Times_ feels it “lacks the crackling inventiveness, the verve of previous outings”. She wants to have an opinion about it, but she needs to stop pacing first.

“Maybe have a cuppa,” Tom suggests from behind his desk, offering her a warm smile. “In the canteen out back. Go on, I’ll vouch for you.” He walks over to her and waits for her to gather her few things into her bag before leading her down the corridor. “Turn right, go straight, then left, and another left, and you’re there.” Another encouraging smile, and he’s gone.

She doesn’t expect there to be many people at this hour, but there are already quite a few, most of them bleary-eyed and holding half-chewed toast or cups of coffee in their hands. There is no queue at the cashier, so she grabs a cup of the day’s soup and finds a place to sit and maybe calm her nerves. She’d underestimated this year’s spring, hadn’t packed a coat strong enough for the cold, and not even the warm heat filtering through the vents could make her fingers warm again, so she cups her soup and flicks her fingers repeatedly on the cardboard rim, the heat just the right touch of scorching.

Then she remembers – _Murakami_ – and filters through her tote bag. There’s a notepad and a recorder in there, and a black pen tucked behind her ear and inside her hijab, all still cold from the outside air. She touches them all, reminding herself where things are – always a handy trick for interviews – before finally taking the novel. She somewhere near the middle of the second chapter where the heroine starts falling apart and questions her reality, the sparse prose beginning to bleed the same way all over the page, but Azra cannot find where she last stopped, flipping the pages impatiently.

“There’s this thing they’ve invented called ‘bookmarks’,” says a voice from across the room. She looks up and the only person looking at her is a man seated a few tables away and facing her. His hair is slightly damp and styled, and he’s dressed in a maroon cardigan and a closed-mouth smile. He raises his mug in a salute. “They’re supposed to be handy for finding your way in a book.”

She can feel a smile pulling on the corners of her mouth. “I don’t believe in them,” she says, pulling out the pen from her hijab, “so as a result, they walk out on me. Typical.”

He breaks into a grin that’s almost all teeth, sharp and white. The rest of his face doesn’t match his boyish rasp by much – his face is rugged and smart, mostly angles and cheekbones, warm-tanned skin with barely-there stubble, and deep-set blue eyes.

Azra’s first thought is how very unlike her usual type he is. He doesn’t have the dark curls, bookish face and thick facial hair for which she has such a strong affinity.

Her second thought is, _Then why did my heart make that weird flip?_

He grins wider and gestures to the chair across her. She shrugs back.

“Good morning,” he says as he strides over to her table, taking a sip from his mug. “You’re new here.” He points at her visitor tags.

She nods. “For work. I should be here for a few weeks.”

He nods back, taking an indulgent drink of what smells like very strong tea, his eyes peering at her over the mug. “And what work is this, exactly?”

She can feel herself tense, trying to come up with the right words – something which doesn’t sound too much like she’s something less than she is. She has a tendency to do that. She’s trying not to do that here. _Be a different person_ , she reminds herself.

“I’m a writer,” she says finally.

His face turns suddenly blank. “Journalist?” he asks, an edge to his voice.

“No,” she says truthfully. “Just…I write. Freelance. I’ve got a thing here.”

“A thing.” He keeps his eyes on her as he takes another sip. “A work thing.”

“I hope so. Otherwise I’ll have to ship myself back home. In a box. Royal Mail.”

He winces. “Ouch.”

“Indeed.” She flicks pages between her fingers, caressing the harsh texture of the ply. The man simply looks at her, his eyes softened again, and wrinkled in an amused sort of way, head tilted just so. She pretends she doesn’t notice.

“What’s that?” he asks as she takes a swig of soup – it burns her tongue, but it’s tangy and sweet and she needs both right now. “Coffee?”

“No. Soup of the day.”

“Orange and carrots.”

“Right in one.”

He leans in and lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “It’s the only soup we’ve got in the mornings.” He nods vigorously at her sceptical look. “It’s true. I made the mistake of telling Laura in the kitchens that my eyesight was going from all my odd hours at work and that I love carrots, and she’s made the same thing every day ever since.”

“Do you take it every day?” He shakes his head. “Then why haven’t you told her?”

“I haven’t the heart,” he says, hand splayed on his chest. “She’s been terribly good to us, me and my team, and I’ve got a guy on my show who will eat anything, really. So it all works out.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Do you even like carrots?”

He shudders. “I used to.”

Azra chuckles, not knowing exactly what to say. She turns to look outside the window but catches her reflection instead. It’s taken her years to look at herself in mirrors without flinching. She gives herself a quick appraisal, as usual, top to bottom – high forehead, thick glasses over smallish eyes, wide nose, plump lips, full cheeks, and a round face which grew to present size when she was 12 and had never really changed, no matter how much cardio or yoga she did.

Well. This is as good as it’s gonna get.

She looks at the reflection of the man sitting with her and flinches. What is he doing, sitting here with her? Nothing about them fits, not when he looks like…like _that_. All handsome and winning and with that _smile_. She shakes her head, smiling ruefully at their mirror images.

When she looks back at him, his eyes are settled firmly on hers, as if he’d never looked away.

“You’re not from… _here_ , are you?” he asks.

She flits through the different things he could mean and wonders if she should be offended. “No,” she admits, lifting the paper cup to her lips and hiding half her face. “Does it show?”

His smile is sympathetic, his eyes so kind that Azra has to look away. “You look a little lost,” he says, “but in a good way. I’m not from London, and none of my friends here are either, so I recognise the look.”

She chuckles. “I’m a little far from home. Farther than you, I’m sure.”

“Would you be offended if I guessed?” he asks, passing his BBC Radio mug between his hands.

“Perhaps.”

To her surprise, he shrugs. “Oh, well. You’ll get over it. Especially when I get it right.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” She can feel a blush creeping up her cheeks, and she rubs them defiantly. “You all right?”

She half-pretends to shiver. The radiators which line the room don’t do enough. “A little cold. But I’m fine.”

“You need something thicker than the sweater you’ve got on. This spring has been quite chilly.” He moves too quickly for her protests, gingerly placing his denim jacket over her shoulders. She can feel him thrum his fingers once on her right shoulder before letting go. There’s a rush in her ears.

He clears his throat. “I should get going. Work waits for no one! And mine is literally waiting for me over there.” He points at the canteen entrance at a man with a striking face, dressed entirely in black, his hair a stylishly fluffy structure. “In a manner of speaking.”

She looks up at him. She blinks at the way his eyelashes cast shadows over his eyes. “Okay. Um. So how do I return this jacket to you?”

“I’ll look for you, don’t worry.” He gives her a lopsided grin and walks away backwards, somehow managing to look both cool and hilarious. “You go by ‘Visitor’, yes?”

“Apparently.” She laughs. He offers her one last smile, his eyes wrinkling further until all she can see are flashes of blue. “See you around.”

Azra watches the two men make their way in a synchronised walk, listening to the echo of their steps marching down the corridor. When she finally finds her page in the novel a few minutes later, her soup has gone cold, but when the taste of carrot hits her tongue this time, she smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine finds herself pulled into some longstanding internal drama.

She feels self-conscious about the wooden soles of her shoes – they clod in sharp echoes as she trods through the hallways. Adam uses his shoulders to plough through the huge doors, each lean a heavy thud, mechanical and surprisingly rhythmic. He grunts out the names of rooms she knows she should note but can’t – she’s never been very good with focusing when she’s anxious – so she falls to staring at the white linoleum, squeaky clean and dull, quite unlike the colourful walls.

‘Squeaky clean and dull’ described her first official meeting this morning.

“Azra Soo,” Lindsay Butler, the head of the radio station’s public relations had said in a clipped tone, her handshake a touch too firm, “so pleased to meet you. This is Adam Mullins, managing director and general caretaker for the Breakfast Gang.” Lindsay winced at the last word. Mullins – all 6 feet, 4 inches of him – gave Azra a knowing smile. Lindsay smoothed her sleek blonde ponytail before gesturing for them to sit. “Please.”

The terms of Azra’s contract were brief: as per the emails she received during their lengthy negotiation, she would be writing an authorised biography of BBC1 Radio’s successful Breakfast Show team, timed to their fifth anniversary and the station’s launch of a new online radio service, which was a collaboration with several music agencies. Azra tried to make small talk about the details of the launch, but Lindsay expertly steered them away, making sure she knew she wasn’t supposed to pry.

At least Azra would be paid for an entire year’s work – a monthly salary, claims, additional expenses which would have to be defined in advance. She had to stop herself from multiplying the amount Lindsay described by five in her head; she lives in London now, and there’s no point dividing and subtracting into multiple currencies and weighing the cost of that egg-and-cucumber sandwich back home. She tried to focus on the details of the insurance and benefits, but she was so anxious about her next meeting that she barely remembered to initial each page of her contract.

That same restlessness bubbles again as Adam stops and stares at the door before them. She can’t tell how this door is different from the others they passed, or if he’s even smiling under his huge, furry beard. “Ready?” he asks.

She shrugs.

He chuckles softly. “Excellent. Anyway,” he says, opening the doors with a flourish. “Lads!” he grunts into the cheerful din, making the conversation stop. “This is the person who’ll be writing your biography. Azra, these are the lads.”

The entire office turns to look at them, but only four faces stare. A tall, lanky man steps forward in the tightest jeans she’s seen on any living being – they’re ripped and scarred on top of everything else, like they’ve been fed through a shredding machine. “Hullo,” he drawls, his tenor voice smooth and sleepy. “It’s so good to finally meet you, after all the things Lindsay and Adam have told us about you.” He looks at her carefully with solemn eyes. “Are you our Lois Lane?”

Azra hesitates before taking his hand. “I’m really not Lois Lane. And not for lack of trying.”

“Sorry, J and I have been explaining the Superman mythology to him, and he’s obsessed,” says a guy with the sides of his head shaved off. “That’s Reggie, by the way.”

“I know,” she says, smiling at Reggie. “Most recognisable ‘Heeeeeey’ in the UK, after all. And you would be…?”

“Noel,” Shaved Sides says, stepping forward, his hand enthusiastically taking hers. “Sound engineer and regular punching bag. And this is J – Jamil Talib, assistant producer.”

Jamil nods, and Azra is immediately glad she’d prepared for this moment by googling them, however briefly. While Eoin and Reggie regularly appear in tabloids recounting their female company and fashion choices, mundane but entrancing details, the other producers have each their own fan base, thanks to their good looks and general charm. Jamil’s face is even more handsome than Google Images could have prepared her for, his eyelashes long against his high cheekbones, his doe eyes a warm, dark brown. The automatic and stylish pout which seems to be his default makes him seem like a sculpture come to life. His uneasy smile relaxes when she gives the salaam and he replies.

“Pleasure to meet you, Azra. Not from around here, are you?” His eyes flicker to her hijab, and she wonders if he can pinpoint her geographically from the exact degree she tucks pins into its folds.

“No,” she admits.

“Where are you from then?” the blonde one asks – Eoin Callahan. “I’m Irish.”

“It’s not like she’s deaf, E,” Jamil teases.

“Well, you never know with some folks!” Eoin scratches the back of his head and pulls the brim of his cap low over his spreading blush. “Me mam says I’m losing my accent – she’s threatened to scrub me mouth with one of those metal scrubs. It’s all ‘cause of you lads and your Received Pronunciation.” He says the last two words in a thick mouthful of posh.

Reggie let loose a bark of laughter. “Get out!” He steals Eoin’s cap and starts jogging away with it, starting a dramatic slow motion chase. Adam and Noel are distracted into an enthusiastic conversation about either competitive wrestling or raising children – she can’t tell from where she’s perched on a table.

She feels rather than sees Jamil standing next to her, their attention on Eoin’s deep and futile lunge onto the carpet. “We’re always like this,” he says quietly. “Hope we won’t scare you off.”

“I’m paid to stay. I have a lease on an apartment which I signed the moment I stepped off the plane yesterday, so I really have no choice.”

He laughs. “William will like you,” he declares, shaking his head when Reggie tosses Eoin’s cap across the room like a Frisbee, avoiding Eoin’s flailing arms. “You’ll fit in just fine. How long will you be working on the book for?”

Before Azra can answer him, the man seated at the corner desk jumps up and snatches the cap from Reggie’s hand and tosses it to Eoin. She’d noticed him sitting there at first, the loud swivelling of his chair a grating noise in her ear, and when he hadn’t looked up, she’d dismissed him as a DJ for one of the other shows. But now she can see that his shoulders are very familiar, as briefly acquainted as she was with them this morning.

He hides surprise remarkably well, Azra thinks – the man from this morning, the one who’d sipped his tea and broke into her silence, who’d made her laugh at that lonely table. His eyebrows rise for a brief moment, and she can feel herself relax into a grin. She’d thought up a few opening lines to say to him from her walk to this office. She’s _ready_.

His jaw tightens. “You’re the journalist.” His voice wraps around the last word with… _anger_. Beside her, Jamil tenses.

“Writer,” she corrects automatically. “I’ve never written about news.”

“Your lot seldom do,” he says. The smug confidence in his voice makes her grit her teeth. “You make stuff up, write stories and sell them. I’d never call it news, but you do.”

“I write fiction,” Azra tries, feeling her chest hurt with sheer indignance. “I also write press copy. I don’t…what did Lindsay tell you about me, exactly?”

“William, she’s not a journalist,” Jamil says, stepping before Azra in a chivalrous move both impressive and annoying. “Chill. Not your fight.”

“You wrote that piece Adam showed us, didn’t you?” Noel asks, looking up from his computer screen. His smile is a bit nervous, and he glances at William. “The one about our show’s fans? I liked it. I think it captured a nice look into our fan base.”

Jamil raises his eyebrows. “Really? I thought the writer was Chinese.”

“My father’s Chinese.” Azra shrugs. “I inherited his eyes.” Jamil gives her a surprised look and a quick grin.

“Let’s keep our heads in the game, lads,” William says. “This is about giving up our lives to some visitor so she can write all about it and sell her _book_.”

“ _Your_ book, too. Elliot,” Adam says with a tired groan, like he’s had this conversation before. “Azra Soo, this is William Elliot, the Breakfast Show’s head producer. Our show is his first-born child, with all the parental trappings it entails.”

“His only child,” Eoin pipes in.

“William’s a very protective parent,” Jamil adds.

 

“The kind to punch his child’s football coach if his kid isn’t made striker,” Noel remarks, almost apologetic.

“He doesn’t have children, let’s make it clear,” Reggie says finally, casting a worried frown at the rest of them. “These are hypothetical football-kicking children and hypothetical incompetent coaches.”

Adam looks at them all and chuckles, shoving William’s shoulder lightly. “Stand down, Elliot. Soo here is a good writer, has spent years in marketing and PR, and since we’re trying to hype up the show a bit, this book is part of your whole five-year anniversary thing we’re planning for next year.”

“The numbers are fine, Adam,” William says bracingly. “We don’t need gimmicks like a book or a – what, a _biography_? The Breakfast Show is an institution, long before we ever came onboard. We don’t need to justify our existence or – what, glam it up.”

“We’re the biggest radio show in the UK and we’re losing our 18–25 demographic for reasons we don’t quite understand.” Reggie rests an arm around William’s shoulders heavily. “We’re in show business, Fruit Loop. It’s all about classy gimmicks.” He winks at Azra from under his mass of curls. Whatever he’s doing to William works – his shoulders relax, and for a moment, he glances at her with something less than frustration.

“This is final, lads,” Adam says after a moment, his voice rumbling authority. “Nothing you can protest would be relevant – none of her interviews or research would interrupt your lives or your show, and this comes from high up, and with my definite approval.” He spreads his huge hands wide open in a show of benevolence. “This is a no-lose situation.”

“Oh, if _you_ say so, then,” William says bitingly, casting glares at his friends. “Excuse me.” He leaves without a second look at Azra. She can’t decide if she’s relieved or disappointed.

“He’ll walk this off,” Noel pipes, his voice needing a bit more conviction. “He always comes around in the end.”

“Terribly sorry about that.” Reggie shrugs and leans towards Azra with a smile, hunching until his face is level with hers. “Welcome, Miss Soo. I never got to ask: are you new to London?”

“Yes, I am,” she begins to say, but Jamil steps between them and says decisively, “Noel and me will be taking her around this part of town today. She’ll want to know places to eat, and I can show her places to pray, so that’ll be us.” Jamil shrugs. “You can come with if you want, Reg, but you’ve got your DJ gig for one of the Geldofs tonight.”

Reggie leans back and she’s relieved. His charm and dimples felt almost like an assault. “Shit. You’re right. You’ll have to excuse me, Azra.” He claps each man on the shoulder and offers a beatific smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I trust these lads with my life, and anyway, they’ll probably be taking you to meet their mums and wives.”

Jamil rolls his eyes, but Noel looks distinctly embarrassed. “Not if she doesn’t _want_ to…” he says with effort. “It’ll just be nice if she—”

“I’d love to,” she says. “Seriously. Take me to your mums and wives.” Now that everything’s moving along, Adam makes his leave, asking her to call him if “shit gets stirred”. Reggie stalks him closely out the door, comical with his long limbs and shaggy dark hair, before landing on him in a misshapen piggyback.

“I’m coming with,” Eoin announces as he trots back from his desk, slipping his arms into a red jacket. “C’mon, then. I’m hungry, lads. You hungry, Azra? We can call you Azra, can’t we? I like the name Azra. It sounds Irish, like.” He squints, removing the snapback off Jamil’s head and planting it on his. “Are you Irish?”

Noel scuffs the back of his head. “What are you – she doesn’t even have an accent, Eoin!”

“Well, you never know, do you? I mean, basic fluency in Gaelic counts, truly.” He points at them with his thumb and leans close to whisper. “These British boys drain my Irishness, I swear. I’m a pale measure of myself around this lot. Come on, you can tell me. I promise I’ll keep your secret.”

“Really, get out.” Jamil shoves him out the door, falling into step with Azra and holding the door for her. “Do you prefer to eat zabihah?”

She recalls the vocabulary of her life in Melbourne – _international student, yes I do speak English, foreign, Muslim, halal food please_. So many years ago. “Yes, please. Although I’m also fine with vegetarian food.”

Jamil smiles and shakes his head. “No,” he insists, “we’ll go to a London classic for lunch. Eoin would approve.”

“Oh. Azra stares at Eoin’s retreating back – he’s slung an arm around Noel’s wide shoulders and is chatting away, saying hello to everyone they pass. “A curry house?”

“Wagamama.”

She laughs. “I thought the UK was the place to have curry. It’s a national dish and all.”

“With bastardised sushi coming in a close second.” He slows his pace and pulls out a box of cigarettes, tapping it thoughtlessly on his wrist once they step into the lift. “I’m sorry about William earlier.”

“Oh.” She stares at their feet, her brown leather brogues to his red and white high tops. “No matter.”

“He was rude,” he insists, the words emerging with a shrug. “He’s not always like that, but in our last five years or so, he’s had a bad time with the press. I mean, we all do, but he’s had…things happen. It’s a weird relationship, you know? The more you give them the pleasure of riling you up, the more they keep chasing you around for shit they can sell. And Will’s had some shit tossed at him. He’s more careful than the rest of us, as a result.”

“You mean he’s angrier.” Jamil doesn’t shrug, staring up ahead until they walk out the lift and through the main entrance of the building. There’s a shower of hot air at the doorway, heavy and blasting as they step into the cold. Her cheeks sting, and again she’s hit with a memory of walking out of lecture halls and into the Australian winter. She shakes her head. “Why aren’t you more upset with the press?”

“They can say what they want, but I don’t really give a damn,” Jamil says, lighting up and taking a drag in a single motion. “And I haven’t had my insides raked through the mud like he has.” He takes another drag before exhaling to his other side, the jet of smoke trailing politely behind them. “I’m not going to make any more excuses for his stupid drama back there, but just – he has his reasons. That’s it, really.”

“Sure,” she says, tired of hearing about William, upset by the way she let his anger overpower her, sick of her meekness. She shrinks into her jacket before she notices the foreign musk it carries, rich and worn. It’s the denim jacket – _his_ denim jacket – and it had never left her shoulders. “Shit.”

“What?” Jamil looks over at her, keeping his cigarette at bay.

“Never mind.” She briefly thinks of shrugging it away and into her tote, but the wind is crisp and cold and it’s been so long since she’s been in anything but the thick humidity of home. “Tell me what Wagamama has. I’m starved.”

“Have you eaten anything at all today?”

“Soup, from the canteen.”

“Orange and carrot, eh? Hm. We’ll have to cleanse your palate with edamame first.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine picks a fight.

“Gooooooood morning, Great Britain!” Reggie runs a hand over his eyes. “I hope you’re all more awake than I am on this cold, dreary Wednesday morning.”

“Had a long night, did ya?” Eoin asks with a grin.

“Went out with friends.” Reggie shrugs and grins back. “Nothing heavy duty. I must be finally showing my age.”

“Don’t worry, Reg. I’ll get you a proper cane for your birthday – with extra support at the base, just like my Nan’s.”

“Ooh.” Reggie leans forward interestedly. “Hers is _really_ nice. Could I have mine in black steel?”

Azra looks through the window from the team assistant’s empty seat and shakes her head. Eoin gives her a comical wink, and she laughs loudly once before clapping a hand over her mouth.

Too late. William’s already glaring at her.

In the name of authenticity, Azra had decided early on that she would spend the mornings in the studio, watching the guys in action as they kept Great Britain company through their morning routines. Adam and Lindsay had cleared her for access to most of the studio, and she learned – with difficulty – how to wake up in time to catch the guys for a quick chat, just before they milled into the studio.

“What have we got lined up today, J?” Eoin asks, nudging Jamil’s elbow incessantly.

“The usual, E.” Jamil gives Eoin’s elbow a quick smack.

“Ow. And that would be…?”

“You tell us about the ridiculous dreams you had last night and we dissect them, before telling you that you need to stop eating just before you sleep.” William rolls his eyes and tosses a pencil at Eoin.

“My doctor says I have very high metabolism.”

“The same one who gives you a lolly every time you visit?” Noel lifts his head with a concerned look. “I think we should talk about getting you a better doctor, mate.”

“Shhh, the man will hear you!”

“What have you got against lollies, Noel?” Reggie asks accusingly. “How have they ever wronged you?”

Noel rolls his eyes. “All that sugar, for one thing. Last thing Eoin needs is _more_ sugar.”

Azra takes notes as they banter, holding onto a mug of tea, piping hot from the tea station. She had arranged for interviews with all the men, and while the others had all agreed to sit down with her (“at some point,” Reggie amended apologetically), William was the only one who hadn’t replied to her courtesy email.

She was too afraid to ask him in person. Not when he barely looked at her, his exits timed so perfectly with her entrances that she’s left admiring his accuracy. The few times she’s caught him looking at her, his stare is impenetrable, his face purposefully blank. She has no idea what he’s thinking, and from the few flashes of disgust she’s seen, she’s sure she doesn’t want to know.

It’s taken her so long to learn to accept herself that she doesn’t need another person hating her.

There are also the days he gets bitingly mean, his light voice thinly disguising his words. On those days, Reggie shadows William with a frown and smiles brightly whenever she looks, like a gangly buffer between dark clouds. Jamil tells her to report this to Adam, but the last thing she wants is to give William another reason to rail and whine. Noel shakes his head and quietly tells her to fight back, but she always comes up with insults too cruel and five beats too late.

She carries his denim jacket in her tote bag and pulls it out sometimes. She means to leave it on his office desk or to entrust it with one of the guys, but she never does. She refuses to wonder why.

Today, just as the guys stalk out of the studio for the next show to come on, Reggie catches Azra standing in the corner, denim jacket in hand. He’d never seen the jacket in her hands before, and his eyes flicker swiftly from the jacket to her face and back, eyes blinking rapidly. His face asks her questions, all too many at once, and it’s all she can do to smile back uncertainly.

He walks to her in a hurry, long legs tangling themselves, genially tipping his broad black felt hat at her. Before she can excuse herself, he crowds her out the door, and she catches a whiff of patchouli from the huge scarf he wears draped around his neck. “Today is your lucky day, darling,” he drawls excitedly. “We’re going shopping.”

Azra stops and stares at him, poking his chest with her notebook. “What? Why?” He raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at the denim jacket, tucked in the crook of her elbow. “Oh, wow. _No_ , Reggie.”

“But you can’t refuse,” he whines. “It’s _literally_ two streets away. We could crawl there with bleeding feet and still manage to get there in 10 minutes.” He widens his huge green eyes, but Azra has no heart.

“Reggie,” she says slowly, “the only way you’d get me to go shopping on Oxford Street is if you drag me there with your bare hands.”

It’s too late for her to take her words back.

“You need a jacket,” he insists, pushing her on a trolley he stole from storage, running through the hallways for the hidden back entrance, the momentum making her unable to stand upright and leave. He’s going so fast, she clings to the metal rail between the handles and prays. “That old one you keep carrying in your hands won’t do you any good. _Eoin_!”

“You yelled?” She stops swatting Reggie’s hat to stare at Eoin, who appears magically by their side, keeping pace on his Segway.

“Adam told me your Segway was _banned from the premises_ ,” she hisses at Eoin.

Reggie gasps dramatically. “She doesn’t mean it, pet,” Eoin coos to his machine, shooting Azra a hurt look.

“Grab Willi – that jacket off her hands, please,” Reggie instructs, nodding at the item tucked in the crook of her elbow. “It’s contaminated. Save the future of humanity. Burn it.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” Eoin tries for a simultaneous salute and grab and nearly topples over.

“Reggie,” Azra says as quietly as she can, still clutching the trolley handle, “it’s okay. I just wanted to return it to him.”

His face crumples briefly, just for a moment. “It’s not okay. It’s awful.” He leans in a little closer to her, bringing the trolley to a halt. Her head spins, and there’s too many curls all of a sudden, and too many green eyes. “He’s my best friend – he’s my brother – and it’s not okay. Let me do this small thing for you. Please?”

“How did you know?” she whispers.

He smiles kindly. “I helped him pick out the jacket. And he’s been wearing that old thing for years. It’s his second skin.”

Imagine that. Azra sighs. “Fine. We’ll go to Zara first. And just for the trolley, you’re buying me lunch.”

“Huzzah!” he yells, again throwing Eoin off-balance and triggering a litany of curses. “You heard the woman, Callahan, my lad! You’re buying her lunch!”

“Huzzah!” Eoin repeats, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You ever had Nando’s before, Azra?”

-

“ _No_.” Her glasses are slipping down her nose from all the sweat as her feet throb and pulse in her shoes, and she can feel her t-shirt stick to her skin, the warm air making it cling. She hadn’t expected the weather to get so warm when she invited Noel out for a jog on their regular route. She wishes she’d brought a flask of water along, like he has. “Eoin, tell him no. Come on, E, I booked you a week in advance and William doesn’t suddenly get to pull you into the Live Lounge. Come on.”

His voice crackles over the phone. The signal at the office has always been shit. “I really can’t, Azra. It’s very last minute, I know, but I’m the only one able to sit down and work out a full set. Normally Reg would be here, but he’s already on a flight out somewhere and Ellie’s single is dropping in a week, so the Live Lounge has to happen today, Az. I’m sorry, truly am. You understand, don’t ya?”

She stomps her foot, making Noel glance at her from where he’s stretching. “Yes,” she sighs. “I know. It’s just – he’s been doing this all week, haven’t you noticed? He’s been messing with our dates – _my_ schedule. The other night he barged in when I was talking to Reggie and dragged him out to a business dinner.”

“That the one which made it in _The Daily Mail_?”

“The very one. Turns out he sent Reg out to go dancing with Rita Ora and that model she’s with all the time.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s an explanation somewhere.”

“If there is, he isn’t sharing it with me.” She fans her t-shirt at the back, drowning in discomfort. “Doesn’t he realise that the longer it takes, the longer I hang around?”

“You should tell him that, sweetheart, I don’t think he understands.” She can hear a burst of laughter in the background and imagines William making another stupid performance, another dumb joke or stunt for the benefit of the producers and DJs in the office, breaking the monotony, the way he always does. It annoys her. She wants to wring his neck. She tells Eoin this.

“Well, tell him to his face, then. ‘William, stop this nonsense right this instance!’” His imitation of her is impressive.

“That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

He laughs. “Are you sure about that, now? Look, I know we promised never to eat into your weekends, but a bunch of us, me and my Irish friends here, we’re going to spend all day Saturday together. It’d be great if you could join in the merrymaking, you know. You don’t even have to grab a pint in order to fit in.”

“Eoin.”

“Okay, you’ll stand out like the sorest thumb. However,” she imagines wriggling eyebrows, “it’s an open invitation. They’d love to have you, and you know I think you’re perfectly swell.”

She rolls her eyes at Noel and he grins as though he can listen to the entire conversation from where he’s flexing his feet. “I’ll think about it. Have you talked to them to see if they’re okay with it?”

“Our get-togethers are like huge parties, Az, love. The more, the merrier.”

“ _Talk_ to them first, eh? See you, Callahan.” She hangs up, watching Noel jump in place to keep his muscles going, his bounce gaining height by the second. “Oh, stop being a show off,” she grunts, and he laughs good-naturedly. Azra tucks the mobile in her back pocket and picks up her stride from where she left it, the sudden motion making her kneecap clamp up in protest, and she tumbles over onto the grass.

“Hey, careful, buddy.” Noel holds on to her elbow as she brushes herself off, waiting for her to test her ankles and feet before letting go. “That’s why we stretch before and after we run.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Yes, dad. I’ll be sure to not eat at least half an hour before I swim, too.” She shoves him, and he moves reluctantly. She shoves harder. “Oh, stop indulging me, Noel, don’t let me hold you back. Just go and leave me in your dust.”

“I wouldn’t,” he insists, dragging his stride several steps more before halting. Perfect form, as always. “You should really stretch out your quadriceps.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t be bloody bothered right now.” Azra huffs as she falls to one knee to tie her shoelace, and feels the impact of thigh and shin come together. She’s used to her weak knees from the years she was a bad PE student, but even she acknowledges this could become a problem. “Let’s just go.”

They walk for a moment, her leading them both blindly in an attempt to hide her growing limp. “Let’s drop by Jenny’s office, have tea, eh? How about it?” he asks kindly.

She would ordinarily take him up on his offer – his wife’s office at the dance academy where she teaches is constantly stocked with ginger snaps and chocolate digestives, and the best rosebud tea – but it’s late in the afternoon and she’s already whiled away enough time weaving past office workers in suits and oxfords and backpacks milling into Tube stations, passing the time before her interview with Eoin. They’d promised to talk about his art degree and his time at university, where he’d met Reggie and William and became a broadcasting unit with them early on. It would have made a solid introduction for the book. She would have been halfway through the beginning.

Stupid William.

“No,” she says, shaking her head and picking up pace, biting back a wince. “Let’s go back to the station. I’m tired.”

When they slow down at the building’s gates, Geoff is on duty and he waves them in, nose wrinkling at their state. They continue jogging into the building like they’re two worn-out athletes running the final stretch of a marathon, hands in the air, panting loudly, drooping with fake exhaustion. The people passing them by yell random cheers of support or whistle loudly. Some give high fives.

When they reach the morning shows’ office, Noel pulls out his mobile phone, nodding a little at his screen. “Let me run over to the Live Lounge first, yeah? William’s asked me to take a look at the set up.” He gives her an apologetic face Azra can’t refuse.

The Live Lounge is ready and pristine when they reach it, drum set and guitars laid out, keyboard propped up in the corner. Noel reaches for the controls and tests everything after wiping his hands on a towel, and Azra watches as he fiddles with tiny levers and pushes lots of buttons. “Test the keyboard for me?” he asks politely, again with that smile, and she finds herself in the Live Lounge, small towel over one shoulder and pressing a few keys.

“The last couple of sessions we put on YouTube had comments about how the soundboard was off,” he explains over the studio microphone. “Willie will wring Toby’s neck if the sound is off again this week. Um, try playing a few chords? You know, G, B, D…”

“I know what a chord is, Noel.” She presses a few keys in a samba beat. She’s a bit rusty, but she loves the way it comes back to her so easily. She misses her rickety old piano back home. “How does it sound?”

“Keep playing,” he tells her. She keeps her eyes on Noel as he nods in rhythm, her fingers moving around the keyboard and hitting more keys whenever he cocks his head to the side questioningly.

A voice pipes up from the doorway, “Sounds like something Beyoncé would sample.” William wears that smirk too well. She wants to punch it off his face. “Sounds good, Noel!” he yells into the main microphone, making the man wince. “Let’s try to take it back a few notches from the foreground, so it doesn’t come out sounding all disconnected from the music, yeah? And try taking it easy on the bass as well; it was distracting when we had Daughter over.” He picks up the bass guitar and plucks out a beat she faintly recognises. “Better, better. Thanks, mate. Now go get a shower, I can smell you through the glass wall.” Noel shows him the finger with a pleasant smile and stays at the controls, pressing a dozen more things.

William just stands there, taking in everything but her, and the silence in the padded room is near deafening. Azra clears her throat.

“William,” she says, wincing at her thin voice. “We should talk.”

“Yeah, listening.” He pulls up the acoustic guitar and strums an F chord on noisy repeat.

She glares at him. “Well then. William, I need you to stop screwing up my interviews with the guys.”

He stops and looks up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she continues, voice gaining verve from the look Noel gives her as he leaves the controls and closes the door behind him. “I’m asking you to stop mucking about with my schedule. I want you to please, _please,_ just stop messing with my interviews.”

He nods mockingly. “Oh, I like this. Tell me one time I’ve ever done that.”

Her scoff turns into a laugh, mirthless and too loud. “This afternoon with Eoin. And Wednesday night with Reggie. And last Friday when I was already sat with Noel and Jenny and you came in to their home and demanded to be fed, like some overgrown child.”

His eyes flash coldly. “I need Eoin for tonight’s Live Lounge, and Reggie is away and everyone else is tied up. Ask anybody.”

“You’re not serious,” she bites, feeling her grasp on her temper loosen. “You’re the producer, you’re here, you’re roaming around the station. Why can’t _you_ do it?”

“I’m working on another show with Zane for the – look, I don’t even know why I’m trying to justify this to you, since you’re obviously cooking up some crock story about how I’m ruining your job.”

“Then why are you after me?” she asks, and she wishes belatedly that her voice wouldn’t sound so reedy, so lost and wondering, but it’s too late now. “Why have you come into every appointment I’ve made and screwed it up to some degree? You have issues with the press and paps, fine, but I’m hired by _your_ employer to write about _your_ show. Why would I sabotage you in any way?”

He runs a hand through his quiff, but his face remains studiously blank, unreadable. “I’ve learned that trusting anyone from the media is foolish and stupid.”

She laughs, incredulous. “But you _are_ the media. If you hate it, then by all means, leave your bloody job.”

This time she recognises his look, and it’s absolutely furious. “You think I haven’t tried?” he yells. She feels a sick joy at how she’s broken him. She refuses to feel guilty about it. “You really think I haven’t tried leaving the one thing that makes sense to me? Well, I have, and I fucking can’t. You think they haven’t taken anything from me? You think my life hasn’t been fucking sold in some fucking way? You think I just hate people without reason, is that it? Oh, new journalist comes into my studio, so I must fucking _hate_ her!”

“I’m not a journalist – God, you don’t even know me!” she yells back. “I have a contract, I’ve signed it; I’m legally bound to keep all your dumb secrets to the grave! I’m not going to write about your mother or your sisters or your ex-girlfriend or whatever you did when you were piss-drunk at The Box. Anything that could be written about you has already been written, all over the stupid tabloids! You did a bang up job without me having to do anything about it!”

He flinches – a flicker of shock across his face, too brief – almost as if he had forgotten about the internet and all the dirt it carries around for free. She lets it sink in, heart burning with satisfaction.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is bitter and low. “I wouldn’t place any bets on that, if I were you. I have plenty of dirt that can make the Daily Mail’s click rate spike, at least for a few days. If that’s what you want.” He looks into her eyes once, and what she sees there nearly makes her gasp. She swallows it.

“I just want you to treat me like I’m bloody human – could you do that, maybe? Could you just stop treating me like the enemy and start treating me like a stranger, at least? Or is it so hard to even try?”

He chuckles emptily. “You’ll excuse me if I lack trust in your line of work. After all, I’m not in the business of telling my secrets to the world.” He shoves the guitar in his hands, letting it clang to the floor. They both glance at it for a moment. They’d forgotten it was there.

Azra nearly shakes with anger. She hates losing her temper, because it means losing all semblance of control, and that’s a weakness. But as with every weakness, she can’t help it. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re _ruining_ my work! I don’t have enough material and I’m increasingly behind the more you fool around and send the lads on goose chases and some dumb shit which shows up in the Metro the next day. What do you think I am, _stupid_?”

She steps closer to him, and he doesn’t move away. “You can pretend that the canteen never happened,” she says, voice lowered to a whisper. “You can pretend I don’t carry your stupid jacket with me to the office every day, waiting for you to behave like you don’t want me to drop into a hole in the ground. You can even bloody pretend that I don’t know your soup story, and I’m glad to forget it. But mess with my work again, and I will _skin_ you.”

His face is blank, but when he blinks she can see a flicker of a question pass. Then he smirks, crossing his arms before his chest, their elbows jostling. “Well, I didn’t realise you were _this_ hard up on meeting men,” he says, eyes glancing at her headscarf long enough to set her blood on fire. “You should have just said. I could definitely arrange for you to go out, have a fun time with Eoin or Reg, though, I must say,” he adds, dragging his gaze up and down, “you’re most definitely _nowhere_ near their type.”

It is a harmless insult as far as they go – she would dissect later all the ways it was problematic, all the assumptions and the politics behind his sexist jibe – but her skin burns with familiar shame. _Desperate_. _Alone_. _A comely beard and smile and expectations and setting the dates. And then a goodbye._

“How dare you,” she whispers. She only registers her tears when she sees his face – his edges are softened, and in his frown she can see familiar shades of pity.

This is why she doesn’t like to fight. She can never win.

“I—” he begins, trying to step towards her, but she runs out of the room. Her knees hurt again as she rushes through the hallways, weaving thoughtlessly, running because she can and because she cannot stop. The tears dry before her sweat even does. They always dry first.

She turns the corner and slams into someone standing still and listening to his iPod, their limbs clanging into each other’s – the person seems to be made of rib and bone.

“Azra!” Eoin exclaims, steadying her by the arms and laughing. “Are you still mad that I can’t make the interview? Don’t be mad,” he cajoles, peering at her face. Then he frowns. “Hey,” he says quietly, “are you okay?”

She brushes him off with a laugh and nods, shoving him in the arm. “I’m fine. I believe the Lounge is ready for you to grace it with your presence.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You were in there? What happened?” His grip on her arms tighten. “Who did you meet, Azra?”

“I’m going to shower and change,” she says with a shrug. “Been stinking up the station long enough. I can borrow your locker, right?” She waits for him to nod before she shoots him the most brilliant smile she can muster and walks away quickly. She waits a moment for him to follow her, pepper her with questions the way Reggie would or walk beside her like Jamil does, but he does neither. When she turns the corner she can see him still standing there, arms akimbo, like he’s just been run into. In a way, she’s relieved.

She brings everything she has into the shower cubicle, setting the bag on the hook by the door. She strips slowly, headscarf first, then socks, then the inner tube she wears under her hijab. She steps under the shower and turns the tap to the coldest setting, hands bracing the wall when the jet of water hits her head. It feels like a fire-hot wave, running shudders through her before it becomes numbing and normal. She doesn’t move, doesn’t let the water hit anything but her head first, seeping the heat away from her ears, her temples, her face. She wants to leave everything here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine is up all night.

The roads are quiet. Azra leans further into the cavernous backseat of the taxi, silently counting the streetlamps on each street, every door with the porch light on. The radio’s playing softly and the only beat she can hear is a gentle bass thump-thump, a familiar 80s song she can’t place right now. The driver doesn’t speak to her. Perhaps he’s a little annoyed. People don’t usually call for taxis past 3 am, as far as she knows. She imagines that people still about at this hour would instead stumble into the path of a taxi after a long, wild night spent with great moments they probably won’t remember. She’s only read about that sort of life.

She can’t sleep tonight. She’s tried. Her heart feels restless and empty at once, thumping madly like it’s trying to remember something it needs. Her knee still throbs lightly from the afternoon’s jog. She can feel the evening’s embarrassment seared onto her cheeks, branding her with a semi-permanent blush.

And then there’s the heat.

She’s tried reading, but Murakami doesn’t sit well on warm nights alone in an unfurnished studio apartment, and none of the books she’s brought along are comforting in any way. So she’d called the only person from home who still felt like home.

“So what did he say to _that_?” Alex had asked, leaning back into his ergonomic armchair.

Azra shrugged at the webcam, burrowing into her thermal blankets. “I didn’t let him say anything. I left.”

Alex shook his head, his bemused smile never receding. “He deserved it, Az. You know that, right? Don’t second-guess yourself. You had every right to yell at the conniving arse.”

“I know,” she sighed, even as his choice of words made her pause. “But I have a feeling this is going to screw up everything. I’ve only been here about a month, and now this. What if he talks the other guys into not working with me?”

“Well, technically you can order their management to force them into being interviewed,” he said. “Speaking of, you never sent me that contract you said you wanted to have me look at. Maybe there’s something in there about professional cooperation.”

“I’ll email it to you later.” A huge yawn escaped her and Alex chuckled, peering into the camera as though he could stare right into her tonsils. “What? It’s super late here. The things I do to talk to my favourite guy.”

“You mean your favourite _lawyer_ ,” he said, puffing up his chest, his cheek dimpling with glee. “Are you sure you’re only talking to me because I’m irresistible? I’ve been asking to Skype with you for weeks now, and you decide to ring me up in the office at…” he glances at his watch, “11 in the morning, my time? You should sleep, girl. You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks, Alex. Anyway, I’ve been having trouble sleeping tonight. It might be all the post-fight adrenaline – you know how I am. So I thought I’d check in on you, since I’m already awake and you are too, obviously.”

He sniffed. “So glad to know that after our five years of friendship—”

“Six.”

“—10 years of friendship, I’m but a mere afterthought in your eyes.”

“I love you, Alex, but if you don’t shut up now I will make Isobel call off your wedding.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. She gave me her new phone number before I left, so you just wait.”

“On that topic,” he cut in, leaning towards the screen, “I think what’s missing right now is a boyfriend.”

“Beg your pardon?

“Oh, don’t pretend we haven’t talked about this before. You’re alone there, young, successful, trying out a new job at easily one of the more exciting workplaces you can find – in bloody _London_ – and you’ve got some workplace drama as well. You always said that you wanted to find a guy away from this place, and there you are. All you need, my friend, is some unresolved sexual tension, some heartbreak, some tears, that sort of shit.” He raised his eyebrows into a comical come-hither look.

She made a slapping motion at the camera and laughed when he tossed his head sideways in tandem. “You are _ridiculous_. And I’m going to call Isobel now.”

“Go ahead,” he said, crossing his arms and winking smugly. “Better than that, why don’t you try and get some work done, huh? It’s what I do when I can’t sleep. You’re already up, you might as well.”

“That’s because I’m not a workaholic like you.” She watched as he waved away someone who peeked through his door with a polite knock, perhaps a legal assistant with a pile of cases in hand. “Look at you, a big hotshot, waving away the help like a bloody lord.”

“Azra,” he said warningly. “Anyway, I should get back before my secretary pees his pants waiting for me to call him in. Give me some warning next time so I can get Bel on the same call as well, okay? You may brandish your empty threats at me then. And seriously, think about going to the radio station if you still can’t sleep. Maybe you can dig the archives or something, do a bit of research for everything that idiot won’t give you.”

She smiled at his words. He’d always been the wiser one, the more self-assured one, even back when they’d first met through a volunteer program – him in high school, her in college. “Will do. Love you, Alex.”

He gave her a wistful smile. “Love you too, A-Team. And for the love of God, don’t try to walk to the station if you go right after this – this isn’t bloody Melbourne. Call a taxi, okay? Talk soon.”

When the taxi arrives at Portland Place, she gives the driver exact change through the sliding window and apologises to him, half out of habit, half out of guilt. Maybe that’s what makes him talk. “G’morning, miss, and mind your back – it’s not a good hour to be out and about.”

“Will do,” she promises with a final smile.

Tom is surprised to see her at the entrance, wonders aloud if she’s having a restless night; she replies to his questions with tired smiles, and he gruffly orders her to the canteen for coffee before she does anything else.

When she finally trudges down the hallways, a huge cup of takeaway coffee in hand she lets her feet carry her by rote. The entire space feels muted and narrower now that there are fewer lights on, and fewer people. The office, she tells herself as she adjusts her laptop case. At least the one place she feels she knows.

The lights are on in the office, and she can hear female chatter – only female, and it’s a rare sound in this office. She peers inside warily, not expecting company at this hour. She recognises the foolishness of seeking solitude here, but she had hoped for room to breathe, away from all the things which mark her daily routine. She raps the door softly and enters.

“Hello.” There are two women in the office, both staring into the studio just across the hallway. The woman who speaks first looks curious and dishevelled, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on her head. The other one smiles and leaves for the studio, where the Early Morning show was still rolling. “You looking for someone, love?”

“Ah, no.” Azra moves to Eoin’s desk because it seems the safest and the neatest. “No, I’m…I’ve got clearance here. I’m working with the Breakfast Show on their…book.”

“Oh.” Lady in Glasses blinks. “ _Oh_. You’re the – Noel’s told us about you, and J, of course, has told Allie. And we talk a lot. We talk. You know how girls are.” Her smile is pleasant, if curious. Azra wants to nod, but the truth is she doesn’t really know how girls are. She’d grown up spending most of her time in male company, first with her brothers, and then her awkwardness at school making her more comfortable with guys. She nods anyway.

“Why are you here at this ungodly hour?” Glasses’ smile widens, even as lines appear on her forehead. “What’s the matter, love?”

Azra feels strangely compelled to tell her everything she had told Alex earlier, even as the afternoon feels so long ago. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explains. “I thought I’d do some research, look at archives from the boys’ earlier shows together. Give the book a bit of history, you know.”

Glasses looks down at her work, and then back to Azra. “I have access to the archives,” she says. “I could help point out where you should look. But you look – oh, pet, you look half-dead on your feet. Come on, come here.”

She moves quickly, taking Azra by the hand and removing her bags, pulling her to the worn office sofa. “I’d hand you my pass, but you look like you’ll drop any moment. You really should get some rest,” she says in that painfully maternal voice, alien and calming. “I’ll make myself scarce. I can switch off the lights if you want. My office lamp is more than enough light, honestly.”

“It’s okay,” Azra says, taken aback by this generosity. “I’d rather work. My brain’s restless so I might as well tire it.”

Glasses takes this well enough. She nods and leads Azra to the archives a few doors away, flitting between guidelines and cheery observations of the office and the staff without effort. “I’m Maya, by the way,” she says finally, ending the chatter with an outstretched hand. “I’ll let Allie know you’ve popped by, if that’s all right with you. She’ll want to say hello, I’m sure.”

“Of course.” Maya closes the door carefully behind her with a soft click. Azra is left with the surprisingly dustless cardboard boxes before her, filled with files, reels of sound and video, and a digital archive of hundreds of recordings in the system. It feels strangely comforting to feel so daunted and lost. She knows this feeling well by now.

She’s shuffling through different files of documentation, looking at credits and producers’ notes, reading carefully through the messy scrawls of Adam and William’s handwriting and abbreviations when a loud rapping jolts her. Before she could scramble off the floor, the door opens, slamming sharply into her back.

“Sorry!” She sees a flurry of blond hair floating down, a pair of blue eyes opening wide. “Oh dear God, I am so sorry, truly. I – why were you sitting on the floor? Although it makes sense, with all those stupid chairs, and I would’ve done it as well, really, sorry about that. You all right? You in pain?”

“I’m fine,” Azra insists, shrugging off the line from her neck to her bum which she knows will bruise. She tilts her head to better see this new person. “Allie?”

“Azra!” she greets cheerily. “You look terribly awake for someone who’s here at,” she glances at her watch, “just past 5 in the morning.” Allie lands right across from Azra, reaching over to rub her back in circles, all along the forming bruise. “What brings you to our neck of the woods? Maya says you couldn’t sleep.”

Azra feels strangely mollified by this familiarity. She’d only met Allie in passing once, over a week ago, when she had come in so early that only William was around. He had ignored her and talked to the producers of the late night shows, keeping up conversation so dull and lifeless it had given her pleasure to listen. She kept her peace by staying at Noel’s desk, reorganising the interview clips on her laptop until she would not mistake Jamil’s stories for Reggie’s knock-knock jokes. When her phone buzzed the prayer alert, she moved to a corner, lay out an old blanket, and prayed Fajr. When she gave her final salam, Allie was there, seated on the sofa by her side, her huge eyes open wide.

“You pray,” she’d said with a keen look. “Assalamualaykum. You must be Azra.” She reached out a small hand eagerly. “I’m Allie. I’m Jamil’s wife.”

Of course. Azra had suspected as much from her general appearance, if not that twinkle in her eyes. Jamil was intensely private about most things in his life, except for his wife – the most she got out of him at the beginning was about how pretty his wife is, how funny her jokes, her likes, her dislikes, her habits good and bad. If Azra were paid to write a book on Allie, she would have everything she needed, thrown at her with such husbandly affection.

“Is William still being an arse to you?” Allie asked next, her voice not lowered for anyone’s benefit. Azra choked on a laugh while William left the office quickly, excusing himself. Azra didn’t trust herself with words, so Allie smiled that cheeky grin she’d heard Jamil describe with more adjectives and more ardour. “Ignore him,” she advised. “He’ll come around.”

Now thinking back to their fight, Azra doubts Allie’s words from before. “He won’t come around,” she says, the words escaping her in this speckless room filled with boxes of what she feels is proof of it. “He’s going to make my life miserable, isn’t he?”

It takes a moment for Allie to realise who she’s referring to, and her grip on Azra’s shoulder slacks. “Oh,” she breathes, “oh, pet, he won’t. I swear, William won’t.”

Azra chuckles mirthlessly. “You in the business of making excuses for him, too?”

Allie tsks with remarkable gravitas for someone with pink edges to her hair. “I’ve known him for longer, Azra. Willie’s like family. I’m not making excuses, I swear – I just know him enough to know he won’t keep being an idiot. It’s seasonal, not permanent” She peers at Azra carefully; Azra feels like she’s expected to explode. But she’s too tired for anything. “Is William why you can’t sleep?”

Azra shrugs, not trusting her words, not trusting the people or the room or this place. “Don’t you have a show to DJ right now?”

“I’m playing a pre-recorded interview with Sir Ian about the play he’s in this month at the National. A bit odd for our demographic, but they’ll love it.” She waves a hand confidently, as if settling her audience with a flick of her wrist. “Have you got plans for this weekend?”

“An interview with Eoin on Saturday, no thanks to your friend William.” Allie rolls her eyes in commiseration. “And maybe trudging around Portobello on Sunday. I need a bedside lamp.”

“Alone?” Allie asks.

“Alone is fine,” Azra says. “Nothing wrong with walking around markets alone.”

“Of course not. But if you’re not doing anything else that day, I wonder if you’d come to ours for lunch? We’ve got some family over for the weekend and Jamil’s been talking about having you over.” She leans in conspiratorially. “His mum’s teaching me to cook aloo gobi the traditional way, i.e. over a stove top and not just chucking everything in the microwave and smothering it all in paneer.”

Azra shakes off her petty assumptions and smiles as bright as she can. “That sounds lovely. I’m not sure I can—”

“Oh, do come! Karen, J’s mum, has been asking about you – we told her how you’d just moved to London on your own, all the way from Malaysia, and she insisted that you come for dinner. You know what mums are like. Besides, there’ll be so much paneer.” Azra blinks at Allie’s enthusiastic pout, her lips stained dark with coffee and her eyes expectant.

“I’ll see,” Azra relents, as much space in that promise as she can allow. “I’ll drop by, if I can.”

“That’s more like it.” Allie winks and stands in a quick move. She reaches for Azra’s fingers without warning and pulls her sharply to her feet. “I have to go, pet. But Maya’s in the office just next door, and our producer, Tiffy – she’ll tell you she’s Tiffany, but don’t listen to her; she’s _Tiffy_ – is great with the archives, a bloody wizard. You’ll ask if you need help, okay?” Allie leaves the room, blazing smiles before Azra could answer.

Azra lifts the file she was staring at before Allie barged in. ‘Vacant slot’, the words read. Or ‘scant spot’. She reads through everything the open box from 2010, standing, sitting, half-lying propped on her elbows, until her tall coffee is drained and the world begins to spin in painful cycles, tight around her eyes. She finds her way to her apartment in another taxi Geoff calls for her, and when she reaches her plain mattress in the centre of the room, she’s finally tired enough to drowse in a light, lucid sleep, while the sun outside shines soft with some unspoken mercy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which truces are drawn.

The proper Islamic way to wake from sleep is to mutter a soft prayer – ‘All praise is to Allah who gives us life after having given us death, and to him we return’ – beginning the new day with humility and gratitude.

Azra wakes up cursing.

“Shit,” she says when she realises that it isn’t a random jukebox playing _There She Goes_ in her head. “Ugh, screw this shit. Oh God, where the hell is my _phone_ – ah.” She whispers the waking up prayer, slapping her forehead lightly. “Sorry, ya Allah. Um, hello?”

“Azra? Good mornin’.” Soft grunts and a growly mumble come through the earpiece.

She peeks at her phone screen with one eye. “Eoin? Are you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, am good.” There’s a sound she knows well: the rubbing of the face with a single swipe. “I just woke up. We’re running late.”

The ceiling is really, really white, she notices. “Late for what?”

“Um, brunch. Brunch with the London Irish – well, we call ourselves the London Irish gang. Brunch. All the way in Bermondsey, which – where is it you’re staying? Marylebone?”

She laughs weakly. “Are you joking? I couldn’t afford a _door_ in Marylebone. I’m at Elephant and Castle.”

“Oh. Okay, send me your location on WhatsApp, I’ll get you on the way. It’s at your end of the city, near the Tower Bridge.”

“Eoin, you’re sure it’s fine with your friends?” Her mattress is so comfortable. Her bones feel so heavy. “We could have the interview some other time, I’m sure. If William tries to block another meeting again, I’ll just—”

“William won’t be a problem,” he says, curt. “Look, it’ll – ah, fuck me, it’ll take me about an hour to get there. Shit. I’m sorry, Azra.”

“It’s fine, Eoin. I’ll probably need that long to get ready anyway.” She might need to stretch her limbs extensively before she feels right enough to leave the flat. “Take your time. You’re sure your friends are fine with me tagging along?”

“Azra,” he says flatly, “what did I tell you yesterday, all day, all those messages over the phone? It’s _fine_. They want to meet you. In fact, if I show up without you, they’ll probably tickle me half to death. So please, come with me.”

“I don’t know, I actually would like to see them tickle you to death.”

“An hour, Azra,” he grunts, and she can hear sheets rustling. “Okay. I’m up. I’m up. The countdown begins. See ya.”

By the time he buzzes her flat, she’s showered and dressed, a good ache in her bones from the quick workout she looked up on YouTube, making her stand straighter. When she peeks out the window, he’s standing languidly outside his parked Range Rover in aviators and a white t-shirt, listening to something on his iPod. She smiles at this rugged image, contrasting it to the way he danced to an Avicii song the other morning, hips wiggling without purpose, his eyebrows dancing madly. It takes so little when you’re photogenic.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” she says by way of greeting. When he doesn’t respond, she taps her satchel against his chest. “Oy. Callahan.”

“Hm?” The sweet smile on his face shifts into a friendly grin, and he pulls the earphones with a pop. “Hello, princess. Your pumpkin awaits.” He bows low and opens the passenger door.

“What were you listening to?” she asks when he starts the car and pulls roughly onto the road. “You looked positively smitten.”

He barks a laugh, making the car swerve and Azra yelp. “Oh, sorry. No, no, it’s just a podcast I listen to when I can. It’s this girl – American, maybe? She sounds it – and she talks about art and media and the scene, in general.” When she looks at him, the fond smile is back on his face, making it handsome again. “I majored in media way back in uni and never really followed it again until I started listening to her. She’s…she’s got a certain charm. A lot of enthusiasm, a lot of sass.” He shrugs. “I like sass.”

Azra smiles. “Podcast, eh? I try to listen to podcasts, but I get so caught up in music. And listening to people talk doesn’t help me when I’m working, since I’m usually writing. I do listen to one on the regular, but only because she’s my friend and she makes me listen to it every week since it’s ‘anonymous’, never mind that every one of her friends and their pets knows about it. I don’t understand half the things she says; it’s all this media jargon – it’s what she teaches – motion tweens and flash poetry and…” There is a strange burn to the silence, and when she looks, Eoin has a warm blush over his face. “I’m sorry for rambling, man. I do get carried away.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” He pulls off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the dashboard, tapping his fingers erratically on the steering wheel. “It’s just…anonymous, you said? Your friend’s podcast?”

“Yeah. She’s had it from when we were at uni together, and it’s become a thing, and she hasn’t quit despite being a lecturer because of nostalgia and her listeners and…hang on a second. Is your – is your podcaster anonymous? Talking about media?”

He nods, his blush growing warmer the longer he chews on his lip. “She’s – oh, she’s got this nickname, this cute little – it’s—”

“Cherry Embargo.”

The Rover brakes violently and there are furious honks from the truck behind them. She smacks Eoin’s arm, her heart beating fast. “What the bloody – I don’t care if you’re having a Small World moment. Move, Eoin!” She keeps an eye on the road as they move again slowly, holding a hand against her chest, muttering short prayers in repeat. “That was bloody dangerous, bloody hell!”

She turns when she hears tiny huffs of breath. Eoin is laughing silently, shoulders shaking and hands barely holding on to the steering wheel. “Where are we going, Callahan?” She forces herself into a stern voice. “Guide us there, and _then_ pull over and have your meltdown.”

“I was _not_ having a meltdown, I was just – hell. We’re almost there anyway. The Garrison Public House.” They drive the rest of the way in near silence, interspersed with his unfinished thoughts, opening with ‘Um’s and ‘But’s, all of them cut short by Azra’s glare.

“Not bloody now,” she says. “I’d like to reach the brunch in one bloody piece.”

“So cute when you curse.”

“I’ll _show_ you cute when you curse.”

When they arrive at last outside a tiny restaurant, shambling in that preferred rustic way with wooden plaques and ironic messages in chalk, he leaves the engine running. “You know Cherry Embargo.” His face is a dream. “That means you know her fucking name.”

“I know her given name. I don’t know about the other bit.” He blushes at this and she laughs. Oh, a man and his filthy fantasies. Wait till she tells her.

“I can’t tell you,” she says, shaking her head at his crestfallen face. She can see her friend’s face before her now, and it is _not_ happy. “I really can’t. I swore. It’s like, three pinkie swears short of legally binding, Eoin – I really, really can’t. She’s got this full career, she’s a lecturer at the Sorbonne and everything and – _shit_ , you have to forget I said that. I suck at this. See? This is why I can’t tell you.”

Good grief, Azra.

“Lecturer? At the Sorbonne?” Eoin looks a little dazed at this. Yes, Azra has impressive friends with amazing business cards. It’s a source of endless envy and boundless pride. “That sounds really familiar. Az, is she…? But no.” He shakes his head hard and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Can’t be.”

Now she’s the one racked with curiosity. “Can’t be who, Eoin?”

When Eoin finally looks at her, his eyes carry so much hope and bewilderment it catches her heart by surprise. “Sayyid,” he says after a moment. “Amelia Sayyid. She’s – I’ve read her papers before. Sorbonne, yeah? Media. Amelia Sayyid.” The words fly out of his mouth in a tumble, and she can’t answer him immediately. There are so many things to consider – promises, people, geography, murder, Eoin’s expectant eyes…

Finally, she says, “ _How_ have you read her papers? I mean, why?”

Eoin’s clear blue eyes go wide, and there’s so much unspoken glee on his face. “Another friend made me read it, said it was important.” He heaves a long sigh. “Shit. No, really, _shit_. This…I’d thought, but then I thought again, no way, because it doesn’t work like that, right?” He looks at her. “She’s your friend? How?”

Her hands feel so useless. “Mia? We went to university together, back in Australia. It feels like ages ago. Actually, it is.”

“Mia.” Eoin takes a deep, slow breath. “You call her Mia?”

“Amelia, Mia, yeah.” She reaches out a hand to his shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. “Breathe, Eoin. In, out, in, out.” She waits for him to laugh shakily. “You okay now?”

“I just…I never thought, you know? Small world.” He rushes a hand through his hair, tugging the blonde strands until his roots stand out.

Oh. “You have a crush, huh?”

He laughs, a blush blooming in soft red all over his neck. “Mia Sayyid. Mia Sayyid is Cherry Embargo.” He shakes his head. “That’s fucking amazing. I should have seen it coming.”

“You couldn’t have,” she says. She doesn’t let herself laugh – just a grin, a tiny reassurance. “I have a feeling this changes everything.”

“What do you mean?”

She exaggerates a sigh. “I’m going to be the conduit to everything Mia from now on. All Mia, all the time. I should ask for payment, but then you’ll get to meet her yourself.”

She didn’t know it was possible for his eyes to get wider. “Do not fuck with me right now, Azra.”

“I’m serious, Eoin!” She laughs. “She’s coming to London for a spell. She’s planning a post-doctorate thing, and she’ll be doing some research around and about. She’s staying with me for a week.”

“When?”

Azra leaves the car and closes the door behind her, chuckling when Eoin rushes to shut everything down. “In another month. End of May.”

“End of May.”

“Yes.” She flashes him a smile, feeling benevolent and light. She has a good feeling about this little stroke of fate – this _huge_ stroke of fate, like something aligning with all the subtlety of a car accident – and she can see the little ways he could be good to Mia. She has a sudden image of Mia being as happy as Eoin always seems to be, and it swirls around her gut happily. “But no promises.”

“Of course.” He nods, placing a snapback squarely on his head, his carefree smile back in place. “I’d love to meet her and pick her brain, but only if she wants me to.”

She has a really good feeling about Eoin.

“Take me to your people, Callahan,” she declares, arms wide open. He grins and opens the door to the restaurant, bowing her in. “I am ready for what your lovely country has to offer.”

-

“And so that was the story of how we hung Eoin’s underpants on a flagpole,” Seamus concludes proudly.

“Half-mast,” Colin adds, hand over his heart. “To mourn his dignity.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Eoin mutters, taking another swig of his macchiato. He’s been staying away from the bottle of Prosecco his friends have been passing around all morning, and his chosen sobriety hasn’t helped his mood.

“Aw, guys. I think it’s cute,” she declares, clinking her coffee cup with Eoin’s.

“You’ve obviously never seen him pants-less.” Colin wiggles his eyebrows. “Keep it that way. Squidgiest bum I have ever seen.”

Eoin burns a brighter red and stuffs one of Azra’s Portobello mushrooms into his mouth. She gives him a sympathetic smile as the others laugh and clink glasses. When they first arrived at The Garrison, Eoin’s group of friends had just finished ordering their brunches and were idle, so they pounced on Azra and Eoin with gusto she suspects is common to them. Colin had plucked the voice recorder from Azra’s hands while Seamus sat on Eoin, and together with Tara and Meghan began a series of well-rehearsed stories from their time together as migrants in the city.

Azra chews on vegetarian sausage, wondering how they made it taste so much like meat. “And thus ended the summer of ‘05?” she asks, cutting off Eoin’s attempt at her tomatoes with her fork. “Wasn’t that the year you quit rugby, Colin?”

He smiles. “Reporter has done her research. I’m impressed.” He nudges Eoin with one of his large hands, winking at Azra. “Callahan, you’ve chosen wisely. I approve.”

“Firstly, she doesn’t need your approval,” Eoin says through a mouthful of Tara’s mushroom risotto. “Secondly, and for the 20th time actually, we’re _not_ dating. And lastly, we need more food at this table.”

“Daniel!” Meghan calls. “Be a darling, would you? More risotto needed for table 12, please! Thank you!” There’s an ineligible holler from the kitchen and Meghan flicks her long dark hair over one shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse our Eoin’s table manners, Azra,” she says with a smile. “His parents did a brilliant job, but eight years with us and he’s become a bloody heathen.”

“Azra doesn’t mind, do you, Azra?”

“Hands off my mushrooms, Eoin.”

“That’s the way to go, Azra,” Tara says with approval. “You really should take him on a proper date, though. See if our Eoin can pass muster in a grown-up setting, for once. And, to be perfectly fair, he’s a great catch.”

“Oh.” She glances at his flaming ears and shakes her head. “I’m, um, not looking to date, at the moment. Not that Eoin isn’t great. He’s just…” she trails off, her eyes caught on a man entering the restaurant, half his head submerged in a grey beanie. “Shit.”

“What? I am not,” Eoin insists, following her gaze. “Oh.”

“What’s this?” Seamus turns around from teasing Tara’s hair to stare at the newcomer. “Oh, look here. It’s Elliot, from the station. Elliot!” He waves at William, who lifts a hand slowly in response. The polite smile on his face freezes when he sees Azra, and she turns her attention to her baked beans, cold now, and sticky with yolk. “Come sit with us, Elliot!”

“Hey,” Eoin whispers as he leans in blindly to grab the salt. “We can leave, if you want. I swear I didn’t invite him over. I told none of the lads where we’d be today. I’m serious, we can really leave, no problem.” His eyes are wide and sympathetic, and she feels a stab of annoyance at how pitiful she’s become. If this keeps up, she’ll have to wear a warning sticker on her forehead.

She shakes her head and shoots him a smile. “It’s okay,” she insists, handing him the salt shaker. She looks at William, making conversation with Colin and Meghan, asking them about his coaching and her restaurant. She feels an unexpected pang of sadness – she’ll never laugh with him like that.

“You should join us, Willie,” Seamus says from the other end of the table. “We’re just having brunch and recounting stories about laddie to his friend Azra over here. You could add to the gallery, come on.”

“No, I’d rather not.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and his gaze flits between Azra and Eoin. Eoin continues to shovel the last of the risotto into his mouth. “I came over just to pick up something to eat. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“I’m sure laddie doesn’t mind.” Tara leans over and peers at Eoin. “Why are you stuffing yourself silly, Callahan? Invite your best friend to join us.”

“Yes, William,” Azra finds herself saying, one hand easing the top of her headscarf and flashing a quick smile to William. His eyes widen a little. “We ordered a ridiculous amount of food, and if Eoin continues eating like this, he’ll be rolling around with indigestion by noon. We can get Daniel to bring your order over instead of to go.” She pats Eoin on the back. “Move over, please. William’s joining us.”

Eoin looks at her with surprise. “He is.”

She keeps her eyes on Eoin, even as her ears ring. “He is. Move over.”

They take a moment to shuffle the seats, Colin and Meghan swapping over, Seamus and Tara skipping chairs, until she winds up between Tara and William. Eoin flicks his stare between them both, seemingly undecided about something. She gives him a small smile, and finally, he nods.

Azra’s acutely aware of William's elbow and the way it barely grazes hers. She hates it.

“You’re eating sausage?” William asks quietly once the conversation around them picks up again, this time an exhaustive argument between Seamus and Eoin about a Christmas party in 2007.

Azra takes a moment to reply, debating whether to look him in the eye. “Vegetarian,” she answers.

“Ah.” She slices tomatoes carefully into equal pieces. “Any good material for your book, so far?”

“They ran Callahan’s pants up a flagpole once,” she says, piercing a mushroom with gusto. “A reward for getting Kelly Brook’s phone number when he had her over on the show.”

“I remember that. Turned out to be a very colourful evening.” She feels him shift in his seat, his knee leaning against hers. Her knee stills when his does. “What does vegetarian sausage taste like?”

“Like meat.” When she looks at him, he’s already leaning in. She bites back a gasp – she has to stop doing that each time she sees his eyes. They’re just _eyes_. The rest of his face looks older, with his hair swept away from his face and light creases tempering his forehead.

She offers him her fork. “Would you like to try?”

He gingerly takes the fork and sausage from her hand, looking nervously at her when their fingers brush. It makes her roll her eyes.

He chews slowly, wince at the ready. “You’re right,” he says when he swallows. “Just like meat.”

“How do you think they do it?” She cuts another piece of sausage and pushes it to him with her knife. He spears it instantly.

“Essence of meat, perhaps?” He sets the fork down with a small smile. “I’d toss whatever that is into most of my veg.”

“Travesty.”

There’s a loud thump on the table, just as a server brings over tea and pancakes. “Azra,” Colin announces, “we’re taking you to Camden Market.”

She remembers a backpacking trip from years ago – the colourful buildings and the souvenir shops, the smell of summer food and ripe bodies everywhere. “You don’t have to, really,” she says. “I’ve been there before.”

“Oh, come on,” Seamus wheedles, “it’s a nice Saturday, and the sky outside’s the bluest it’s been in three weeks. We’ve got to enjoy the fucking sunshine. Make hay while the sun is out, and all that.”

Tara rolls her eyes. “Never trust an Irishman with a saying.”

“We could go record hunting, Azra,” Eoin says. “I’m still looking for that Billy Joel album on vinyl. Also, there’s this fantastic falafel place I wanna show you – best falafel for miles, I swear on my aunt’s turkey.”

“Her turkey?”

“Thoroughly dead, God rest its soul,” Meghan explains. “Remind us girls to tell you _that_ one. The lads are utter shite at that particular story.”

“Come on, Azra.” Eoin gives her a silly wink. “I’ll buy you some cheese puffs too. Turkish. Mountain bread. Mmmm.”

Azra smiles non-committedly and returns to her plate.

“They’re really good cheese puffs,” William says when the others start arguing over the bill. “And there are some really good bookstores there which sell rare books, and second-hand stuff. You should check those out.”

“Bookstores?”

He shrugs, keeping his focus on his pancakes. “You’re always reading that Murakami novel in the Lounge during the show. Maybe you’d like something different.”

“I would,” she says, staring at his beanie as the others talk over each other. “But books take up so much space, and I just…there isn’t much room for books, where I’m renting. And when I leave London, it would be a luggage issue, as well.”

“Where there’s a will.” He hands her a forkful of his pancakes. She looks from his fork to his face, not knowing what this means.

The pancakes are lovely.

“Are you coming with us?” she asks, returning his fork.

He shakes his head. “I’ve already told Colin – I’ve got errands to run on this side of town. But you should go.”

She stares at the pattern of drying yolk on her plate. “Bookstores, eh?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“It does.” He’s looking straight ahead, so she makes another study of the lines of his face, the light teasing off his jaw as it works. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

“If it helps stop you from skinning me.” Her neck goes warm at these words, but she laughs, pretending she can’t remember the things they said.

“I’ll see you around, then,” she says, standing up. “Thanks for the pancakes.”

He glances quickly at her before returning to his food. “Bye.” If she stands there any longer, she’d imagine a small smile at the corner of his lips, and where would she be?

Colin and Seamus give William boisterous waves as they exit the restaurant, blowing kisses to the wait staff, and Tara and Meghan pull her into a conspiratorial huddle with more stories to tell. She lets them take her to Camden; every first print hardcover she comes across reminds her of William looking her in the eye and that flutter in her stomach she wishes would disappear when he looks away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we're introduced to our heroine's non-work friends.

_There are few things more anomalous than being a famous person for something your homeland will never get to see or hear, but thus is Eoin Michael Callahan’s lot in life. Ireland knows perfectly well what Eoin does every weekday morning, from 6 to 10 a.m., but due to longstanding tradition and broadcasting rights, they will never hear him greet them good morning from Portland Place, London. Ireland is proud, all the same._

_His antics are legendary in the studio, well enough that they’ve been spread across the land and back to County Cork, in the small town where he grew up for most of his life. Despite his own claims of botching his applications in a terrible way, in 2002, he ended up a student of broadcasting in Manchester University. It was this decision that set in motion the course of his life._

Azra has never been – might never be – a morning person. In retrospect, her signing up to write about the Breakfast Show was something akin to a death wish. She struggles with the hours, and finds herself falling asleep at the most inopportune times, like before she’s had her shower or even dinner. She hasn’t had time to call Alex or Mia in weeks, and especially not her parents.

She’s not _avoiding_ them. Truly.

“Find an in-between,” Mia suggests, biting on a carrot stick with gusto. “You still need to get into your space as a writer. Maybe recreate every other element of your preferred writing situation, if you have to shift your work hours. Do what you have to.”

Azra salutes her with a piece of bagel. “Aye-aye, captain.”

They’re both on lunch breaks, Azra in a café around the corner from the station and Mia at her office cubicle at the Sorbonne, both sneaking in work between their call. She remembers a time she would’ve been upset if Mia had only given half her attention when they Skyped. Now they both allow this erratic focus into their limited time together. “What are you working on, woman?” she asks.

“I’m trying to fix some broken links on my podcast page – Soundcloud is being a huge asshole right now. I pay for this service, damn it.” Mia pushes her fingers into her curls and conjures a hair tie, seemingly out of thin air.

“I want to learn your magic tricks.”

“Hm?” Mia gives her that familiar look – the one which makes Azra feel like Mia wants her certified insane, perhaps – and lifts an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“You look like Eoin when you make that face,” Azra says. “One of the Breakfast Show DJs,” she adds when Mia looks confused.

“The cute one? With the hair? Wait, let me Google him.” Her headphones catch on Mia’s fingernails clacking on the keyboard. “Ah, the blonde one.”

“Cute, no?” Azra narrowly avoids spilling her cappuccino as she leans over to place her chin in her elbow. Mia’s face is decidedly blank. “And sweet, too. I can’t tell you how nice he’s been to me since I came here.”

“That’s nice of him. Eh, wait.” Mia stares incredulously at the cup in Azra’s hands. “Are you having _coffee_ , Azra? _No_.”

“Stop worrying, babe,” she says, sipping demurely and enjoying the look on Mia’s face. “I’ve developed something of a tolerance.”

“Sure.” Mia sounds disbelieving. Not for the first time, Azra feels that Mia becoming a lecturer was probably the best for everyone involved – college students always thrive on concern, and Mia had plenty of worry to go around. “How’s the hot one, by the way?”

Azra rolls her eyes. “J is fine, and so is his wife. I’m supposed to visit them again when J’s mum comes to town.” She taps the tin canister of sugar against her ring. “Actually…I may have accidentally asked her to find me a husband.”

Mia predictably hoots at this. “About time!”

“But I was _joking_!” Azra exclaims, perhaps a little too loudly. The skinny blonde guy at the small table across her smirks behind his hand. She smiles back sheepishly.

“But were you really?” Mia asks, looking…amused? Relieved? The internet’s gone poor and Azra can’t exactly tell. “Because it’s not like we haven’t talked about this being an option again, you know.”

Azra glares at her, feeling betrayed on some level. Mia should understand. She’d been there, hadn’t she? “I just don’t want to relive the whole thing all over again, Mia. I think I understand expectations at this point, and I meet next to none of them.”

“Bullshit.” Mia pushes up her glasses with a frown. “You are who you are. Those stupid people with expectations can go fuck themselves. I’m serious – let me talk.” She holds up a hand when Azra opens her mouth, and keeps it there. “I’m not going to take any more of your self-pity or your self-deprecating nonsense, okay? Fuck people’s expectations. Either they take you, completely as you are, or not at all.” She breathes out noisily, making a long curl drift away from her face. “You know this. It’s not like we haven’t been over this enough times.”

“Anyway,” Azra says, needing to distract her, “I only said it because Karen, J’s mum, was being nice and everything, feeding me more palak paneer than I’ve ever had in all my life, and she said, ‘Have you got a special someone already, Azra love?’, and I said, ‘Nope, but I’m definitely putting my antennae out’, and then she talked about unmarried cousins or something? I meant it as a joke,” she insists, watching Mia’s bemusement. “But then I went out for breakfast with Allie and Nic and Allie told me that Karen’s _actively looking for me_ and what do I _do_ now?” She rests her forehead on the table with a light thump. The table top smells of lemon polish and cigarettes.

Mia does not disappoint with her practical voice, strained in its effort to not nag. “Well, you could just go on these… _things_ Karen sets you up on. Blind dates? Essentially, right? I mean, you need to take a chance in order to meet someone.”

Azra glares at Mia. She doesn’t appreciate it when Mia’s smile grows wider. “I’m not ready for anyone.”

“How will you know if you don’t try?” Mia wags a carrot stick at the screen, hummus hanging precariously from it. “Open to chances, remember? Try everything once and all that shit. But it works,” she relents, shrugging. “It’s how you got to London, isn’t it? You went, ‘Ah, whatever, I’ll give it a shot’, and you’re there now. This could be another one of those things.”

“But it’s not like I’ve had a good track record with this whole matchmaking business.”

“Who has?” Mia flicks a few strands of hair off her face and Azra prepares for some sort of berating or scolding, something about chasing after the stars and all that same shit. But Mia quiets down, her shoulders leaning towards her MacBook, like she could peer close to Azra’s face through the screen. “That one time – and I admit, babe, it was a very bad one time – doesn’t say anything about you. It really doesn’t. He left. That’s it. It’s not you, it’s him.”

“Hm.” She wants to believe Mia, truly she does, but she doesn’t imagine Mia understands rejection like she does. She knows Mia has had boyfriends – Nathan back at university, Cameron a few years ago, dates and encounters over the years, the details of which Azra doesn’t remember. But Azra’s experience only consists of a smattering of crushes from a distance before her perfect fiancée – the one who ended his promise just as quickly as he’d made it. The one who had helped her fall in love and then took it away.

“Yeah?” Mia looks hopeful as she peers into the screen, like she can read understanding and acceptance on Azra’s face – as though pixels don’t obfuscate. “It was just him, Azra. And at the end of it, it was really his loss, not yours. I mean, good riddance, right?”

Azra smiles wide enough to let Mia see what she wants. “Yup. And at least it happened before we were actually married. Imagine the mess. My mother would have killed him and it wouldn’t have been pretty.” She has repeated these words so many times, to others, to herself, that they have the illusion of meaning now.

“Yes.” Mia appears pleased, finally. “Oh, I wish I could give you a hug right now.” She wiggles her fingers near the camera. They look like overgrown worms.

Azra laughs. “Just a month left. You leave for Ukraine, and then you come here, and we have all the hugs we want. I can’t wait. My apartment is tiny, but you’re staying with me.”

“Oh, I remember the time we went camping at Wilson’s Prom. We survived five nights of that – we can survive anything.”

“Except zombie invasions. Or vampire-infested organic produce.”

“Our skills need brushing up, I will admit. Although,” Mia scratches her chin, “I think you could practise on that weirdo producer jerkface. What’s his name again?”

Azra sighs. Here they go. “William. William Elliot.”

“Yes. How is jerkface doing? I hope you’ve literally skinned him by now. Once. Maybe twice.”

Azra wipes the corner of the screen with her fingers, realising just how long it’s been since she last called Mia. She takes her time swiping at the dust caught there, long enough that Mia’s focus goes to other things on her screen, tapping her trackpad and humming lightly to herself. “I haven’t skinned him,” Azra finally says, satisfied that she’s cleaned as much as she can.

“How do you deal with him, then? You’re not still hiding in the archives, are you?”

“It was that one time,” Azra insists. “I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I’d get work done. That’s all. I wasn’t avoiding him or anything.”

Mia raises her eyebrows sceptically. “And now?”

“Now, we…” Azra rights her shoulders and sits up straight. “We talk,” she states. “We make chit-chat. We talk about the weather. We talk about the show. I still haven’t asked him anything too probing, and nothing like an interview, but – we’re _there_ , in a way. We’re not yelling at each other anymore. That’s a relief.”

“I hope you yell at him whenever he deserves it, though. The jerkface.”

Azra sighs. The last she had told Mia of William had been a long, furious email with errant punctuation, sent in the dead of night just before she’d called Alex, her focus in a shambles. Mia had replied with an appropriately angry and properly sympathetic tirade against rude, entitled white men. It’d made Azra laugh. It’d made Eoin chuckle appreciatively when she showed him, even as he navigated around Azra and William and their secret truce.

A secret. That’s what this is, Azra and William’s little dance of quiet peace. Azra had begun it when she let him sit with her and the London Irish for brunch , which he continued by treating her with that easy way he has, so like the first time they met. Each morning they meet at the studio, brushing past each other on their way out and in, and they ask polite questions of each other. Sometimes he even remarks drily to her on something which happened in the studio that day – somewhere between snark and genuine interest. 

Jamil was the first to note this. “He’s not being a complete arse anymore,” he’d said while making dinner for Azra one night, when Allie brought up the topic of William. He’d accompanied this with a wondering look at Azra, which he dropped when she said nothing in reply. Jamil is brilliant like that.

“He’s not being a complete arse anymore,” Azra repeats this to Mia, waiting for her to look back with surprise. She doesn’t, and Azra isn’t sure whether she’s relieved or disappointed.

“Well, that’s good,” Mia says slowly, glancing to the bottom right of the screen at the time. Azra looks at the clock above the cashier. Lunch time is almost over in Paris. Tea time is about to begin in London.

“What class do you have next?” Azra watches as Mia’s keyboard activity increases, the screen casting a glare over her dark-rimmed eyeglasses. “Which set of poor souls do you get to torment for the coming hour or so?”

“Ugh, let’s not.” Mia rolls her eyes dramatically and smiles. “It’s the final stretch before the final exams and everyone’s dragging their ass back and forth campus grounds. I feel like a witch.”

“We never did start that coven like we’d planned.”

“Hmm. Speaking of, you should come visit. Paris would love to have you.”

“When did we start talking about cities like they’re bloody people and we’re bloody douchebags?” She succeeds in making Mia laugh widely, leaning back into the chair.

“Love it when you curse. Okay babe, I’ve got to run and corral my kids into writing me something worth marking.” She pauses when she stands, shaking her head. “When did we start calling these tablet-toting adult hooligans ‘kids’? I feel old.”

“Don’t you start.” Azra points a finger at the screen. “I turn 29 this January – long before you do, so don’t you bloody start.”

Mia laughs again at this, sticking out her tongue – just for a moment, they’re back in Melbourne, seated on the steps of Federation Square, sharing a huge box of Lord of the Fries potatoes smothered in mustard and gravy. “Fine, lady. Bye! Have a good week or whatever, however long it takes for us to Skype again – we _really_ should be better about this. Love you! Don’t let the man get you down!” Azra laughs and waves back before finally shutting the window.

The skinny blonde guy from before is still smiling at her, though not unpleasantly. “Good Skype session?” he asks, even with his own headphones on. Azra pulls hers off and smiles back.

“Old friends. You know how it goes.” Skinny Blonde nods sagely, another small smile before he returns to his own work, his black laptop perched precariously on one bony knee. Azra looks briefly at the open Word document before her, cursor blinking, before she asks the lady with the amazing afro to her right to kindly watch her things as she gets another coffee.

She sees another late night coming.

-

“It’s like entering a hermit’s cave, Allie.”

“Nic, they can _hear_ you.”

Nic sniffs. “I highly doubt it.”

Azra raises her eyebrows at Nic. “The brewing caffeine may be all we can smell, but that doesn’t affect our hearing, babe.”

The café just down the street from Portland Place has become Azra’s makeshift office – it’s far enough from the restlessness of Radio 1, and close enough that the subjects of her book can barge in with or without notice, which they do, very often. Reggie and Eoin always drop by after the show, and Noel and Jamil tend to come in when they’re looking for another place to work, away from William and his anxious loudness. Maya had suggested the place to her one sleepy Tuesday morning, and Azra had stepped in, instantly was greeted by smiles and the aroma of brewing coffee. It was love at first smell.

She’s become a _regular_ now, and she’s never been a regular anywhere. She knows the baristas by name and they know hers as well, calling her ‘Azza’ when they see her in the mornings, doing a coffee run for herself and Jamil. They know her favourite order (a macchiato and their whitewashed-but-surprisingly-tasty Moroccan salad) and grin knowingly when she gets a different thing off the menu. It speaks to how exciting her life is that she’s somewhat thrilled by this.

Nic is excited by the prospect, if only to tease Azra. “Privileges, _Azza_ ,” she says with glee. “You might as well get a bleedin’ members card. You’ll be one of those.” She points to a group of young college students cramped around a square table, power cords snaking all over their books as they stare with furrowed brows at their computer screens.

“I already know their names,” Azra says. Allie gives out a triumphant laugh. “The one with that great afro is Jessica, and the guy right next to her, the one with the amazing trainers I know you want, Nic, is Jeff, but we call him Donzo for short. Inside joke. And the other two – I can’t remember their names, but they’re taking business administration this semester, and they all hate it, Donzo especially. And the guy on the other table, in the corner, is Dave.” Azra shrugs. “No man is an island.”

“Azra. You’ve become one of them. The _horror_.” Nic widens her light brown eyes. “But more importantly, I want those shoes, and Dave looks delicious. Is he for sale in this fine establishment?” She elegantly raises an eyebrow and stares in Dave’s direction.

Dave is the laughing, skinny blonde guy who eavesdropped on Azra’s Skype session with Mia a couple of weeks ago. He’s a seasoned regular, sitting in the café for a couple of hours each weekday, whiling away the time by chain-drinking chai lattes as he waits for the opening of the restaurant where he does the ‘boring admin nonsense’, as he calls it – the accounts, the management, the human resource. He moved here from Sydney three years ago, and Azra always marvels at the way she missed his accent the first time they talked.

“An easy mistake to make,” he would insist, his twang growing thicker as if to prove his birthright. “I try to hide it as much as I can so it doesn’t distract people and I don’t wind up talking about bloody kangaroos and wombats with every new person.” Whenever they talk, he lets out in full the anachronisms of his dialect, which Azra only half-understands; she hadn’t spent so much time outside of Melbourne city and campus, densely populated with migrants and international students as it was, and the more roguish aspects of Australian English had escaped her. She doesn’t tell Dave this. She keeps an app on her phone for the truly puzzling ones.

“Ooh, Delicious is making his way over here,” Allie says, nudging Nic repeatedly. “Game faces on, ladies.”

Azra looks over at Nic fluffing her hair carelessly, letting it fall in perfect chestnut brown waves, and decides that there’s no real competition here (even if she was interested in Dave, which she is decidedly not). Nic’s light pink lip colour hasn’t smudged despite the croissants they split before, and her face glows in the soft café lighting. If she believed in reincarnation, yes, Azra would have no qualms about being reborn in Nic’s skin.

“Hey, Azza.” Dave taps the table in front of her. “Do you want my muffin? It’s chocolate chip, and I’ve gotta run.”

“Do I look like a trashcan to you?” She looks up at Delicious Dave. There’s a bit of fashionable scruff on his face, and if Azra squints a little, she can see why Nic is putting up a fight.

“Chocolate chip,” Dave sings, waving it under her nose. “Come on, dude, you know you want some chocolate lovin’.”

“Fine, hand it over. And thanks for tossing all your unwanted junk food to us.” If Nic’s grin showed more teeth, it would be absolutely predatory. “Um. Dave. This is Allie, and that’s Nicole. Ladies, this is Dave.”

“Lovely to meet you, ladies.”

“I was just telling _Azza_ over here to take advantage and sign up for membership here. I’m sure you can testify that the perks aren’t shabby at all.” Nic’s smile dazzles, and even Azra is mesmerised. Dave doesn’t stand a chance.

“Of course they aren’t,” he says, something sly and charming creeping into his voice. “You’ve got decent food, regular doses of caffeine, and as it turns out, gorgeous company.” Allie doesn’t even hide her eye roll. Oh, Dave.

Nic doesn’t seem to mind his tendency towards thick cheese at all. They exchange teasing looks and flirtatious compliments while Azra and Allie pretend not to pay close attention, and Azra has to admit, there is something of a sporting quality to the way they volley words at each other.

 Dave joins them at the table after a few corny sentences, fitting himself neatly beside Azra and effectively trapping her in the corner against the glass window. They’re squeezed so tightly, she can feel his knee jiggle up and down against her own, gaining velocity whenever he waits for Nic to retort. She has to keep nudging him back, but his nerves keep getting the better of him, and he slams his knee against hers over and over.

 _Where did you find this one_ , Allie messages Azra’s phone.

_I conjure men out of thin air, haven’t you heard?_

_How does a girl get into the game_

_Down, Bessie. You already have your silent strong artist type for a husband. Leave some poor sods for the rest of us._

“Hey, babe.” Jamil appears behind Allie, as if summoned there by telepathic texting, and presses a kiss atop her head. “You sent out the Bat signal?” He looks pointedly at the couple with them and speaks more softly, “How’d this mating ritual start? You texted me like, 15 minutes ago, telling me you were bored.”

“Azra’s a witch,” Allie explains. “She makes love happen out of thin air. And muffins, too.”

“Hey, humanoids,” William calls, walking over with a full tray of drinks, all of them huge mugs – only of course it can’t be him. William never comes to this café. This café is William-free, all the time. It’s basically a law.

Azra looks at Jamil. Jamil just shrugs.

William nods at all of them, pausing when he reaches Dave. His voice becomes both strained and chipper. “Hello there. I’m William. This is Jamil.”

It takes a moment for Dave to shake himself out of Nic’s enchanting haze before reaching out an arm, his elbow narrowly missing Azra’s eye. “G’day, mates,” he says, his accent thicker than Azra’s ever heard. “I’m Dave.”

William raises his eyebrows at Azra. _What the hell,_ his look seems to say. “Dave, William and Jamil produce the Breakfast Show,” she offers.

“Ah. Good show, man. I listen when I can. Late nights, work and all, you know? Can’t really catch it on time most days. But I like it. Azra here tells me it’s a bit of an institution, eh?” Nic takes a languid sip of her mocha, her eyes on Dave’s mouth as he starts rolling his vowels together in that singsong rhythm.

“I suppose you could say that.” William pulls a chair at the head of the small table and gives him a careful smile. “You should come visit, see Azra in her element.”

She raises her eyebrows. “In my element? Yeah, my writing skills have never been more exhausted as when writing a biography of five best friends and their full-time jobs.”

“It sounds exhausting.” There’s a glint in William’s eyes as he takes a long drink from his mug.

“Definitely more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I think any form of writing is a big deal, Azza,” Dave says, stretching an arm behind him and resting it on Azra’s chair. William’s brow furrows a little and he mouths, ‘ _Azza?_ ’ “I couldn’t write to save my life, bloody oath.”

Azra laughs. “I haven’t heard that in so long! Is that how you use it? I can never tell how to, or when.”

Dave grins. “Come on, Azza, you know this. It’s literally what it says – it’s a bloody oath. It’s a declaration of straight-up seriousness. You try.”

“Bloody oath,” Azra tries. “Nope, I sound ridiculous.”

“Try again.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think I can deal with any more terrified econ students chewing on all the straws in this fine institution, bloody oath.”

Dave laughs heartily. “That’s the way!”

Jamil’s lets out a startled chuckle. “You’ve got a fuckin’ Australian accent, Az! Where did _that_ come from?”

“Her accent floats in and out.” William’s face is perfectly casual, like he offers observations about her speech pattern all the time. “It changes when she talks to us, too. Gets more…British, if that’s the right word to use. She’s a sympathetic speaker.”

“Now that you mention it, it makes sense, yeah,” Nic says, eyeballing Azra before turning to Dave again. “And your accent’s getting thicker, too.”

“Ah, me?” Dave chuckles low. “I’m just showing off.”

“Speaking of being thick,” Azra says, “isn’t there somewhere you’re meant to be in like, 20 minutes?”

Dave chews on his thumbnail. “Me? Somewhere else? I don’t… Shit! The restaurant.” His limbs jostle into Azra painfully as he pulls himself up and standing. “It’s been a pleasure, everyone. And it’s been lovely getting to know you, Nicole.”

“Likewise,” Nic says. Jamil coughs loudly; William thumps his back. “Actually, I was just headed down to Oxford Street myself. You wouldn’t mind walking me there, would you?”

Azra bites back a laugh at the way Dave’s face near splits in two. “It would be an honour,” he says with near reverence. The rest of them pretend not to stare as Dave and Nic make their goodbyes quickly, picking up their things with increasing urgency before leaving the shop, heads ducked together.

Allie squeals with laughter first. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” She grabs one of Azra and Jamil’s hands in each of hers. “I haven’t seen such ridiculous flirting since – oh my God, since never! Oh my God!” Jamil leans in to whisper something in her ear with a cheeky grin, and just like that, Azra’s hand is neglected.

William looks incredulous. “They were _together_?”

Azra nods. “Yup. Or, to be more precise, it won’t be too long now before it happens. Not the way they were going on.”

“But I thought…” he trails off, his forehead creasing slightly. William shoves Jamil when he laughs loudly at something Allie says.

“Thought what?” Azra asks.

William shrugs defiantly. “The way you were all pressed up on each other, I thought that you were the one dating Dave the Australian.”

“Dave…and _me_? William.” Her laughter sounds too shrill.

“You have good chemistry.” He shrugs, chin burrowing into jacket, fixing her with a stare. Azra’s laughter softens into a chuckle.

“He was all over Nic, anyone could see that,” she points out. “Besides, Nic is gorgeous.”

He leans back in his chair, arms folded before his chest. “Gorgeous doesn’t mean much.”

Azra scoffs. “Firstly, that’s dumb. We all know what gorgeous is, and Nic is it. And secondly? Liar.”

“Who are you calling a liar?”

Azra raises her eyebrows pointedly. She’s seen pictures of his ex-girlfriend, Emily, from her brief Google search after the first time they met. Azra uses a lot of words whenever she has to describe models in writing – tall, lithe, pretty, stunning, adorable – and she could use them all up trying to describe Emily.

It takes him a while, but eventually William narrows his eyes and shrugs that obstinate shrug again. “Pretty is nice to look at,” he admits, “but relationships don’t rely on looks alone.”

Azra smiles at this. “I wish I could say that it matters less, but that hasn’t been my personal experience.”

William looks up at her, his face marked with something like surprise, before he sets it away and turns cool again. “Why? The men you come across not handsome enough for you?”

Azra can’t help but frown a little. Is he even serious? She keeps her voice even as she says, “The other way around, I’m afraid.”

She’s become somewhat acquainted to his eyebrow raises, but this one is entirely new. “Maybe you’re not meeting the right men.”

“Maybe I just need to accept things and work with what I have,” Azra says, noting how poorly she’s done this over the years. She makes a mental note to work on self-actualisation. Also to call Karen and beg her to call off the man search until she does.

“Maybe you need to stop dating jerks,” William remarks.

Azra smiles, knowing he has no idea how close to the truth he is. “Maybe.” She remembers and looks at Allie, but she and Jamil are at the counter, staring at the drinks menu. When had they left the table? “I don’t actually date, either.”

“Then how would you know that all guys want is a pretty face?” William gives her a challenging smile.

Her cheeks ache as she holds her smile. “It’s a truth universally accepted. Also, I’ve gone on casual dates with people who…get matchmade with me. It’s the more acceptable way, Islamically.”

William’s brow scrunches up, and it makes him look both older and more handsome, she thinks with some frustration. “Islamically? I didn’t know that was a thing.” He glances at Jamil and Allie, openly kissing while in line.

Azra’s cheeks begin to warm with that familiar burn. “Some of us are more…strict than others. And I’m…traditionalist, you would say? Basically, pre-marital relations are forbidden as a general rule, and that includes physical contact between women and men.”

He looks suitably confused. “But…you shook my hand. All our hands. And Eoin’s always invading your space, and Reggie’s always resting his elbow on your shoulder like,” he tries to demonstrate on thin air, “you know.”

“I make some concessions. Shaking hands is one of them, if the other party reaches out first. It looks terribly rude otherwise, and it always takes too long to explain.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “Otherwise, it’s pretty clear cut. No holding hands.”

“Including everything that comes after?” He gives her a blank look.

 She matches it squarely. “Exactly.”

“That’s…interesting.”

She scoffs. “Come on, out with it. You mean it’s strange.”

He starts to shake his head, then changes his mind. “Okay. Yes. I don’t get it.”

“I know you don’t,” she says. “That’s fine.”

He runs a finger around the rim of his teacup. “I want to understand, but…not even holding hands?”

She smiles. “We prefer to look past things which have a tendency to fade. Like sexual attraction—”

“Or beauty.”

“Beauty standards are generally misleading.” She lifts her mug and hides her large nose behind it, draining all her cappuccino in one gulp, but pretending it lasts for longer than it does. Anything so he doesn’t notice her nose.

He hums softly. “And dumb.”

“And dumb,” she agrees.

“At least you’re spared the hellhole that is dating. It’s a whole shit pond of awful people and terrible choices out there.”

Azra laughs. “Oh?”

“Terrible.” He shudders for effect, but he has a rueful smile. “I haven’t tried dating in years.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He raises an eyebrow, and Azra congratulates herself. “Are you calling me…attractive? I don’t know how I should read that, Soo.”

“However you wish to, Elliot.”

His smile shifts and grows warmer. “Speaking of reading, did you find anything new to read in Camden the other day?”

“An old copy of Orwell’s _Down and Out in Paris and London_.”

“Very apt.”

“I thought so too. Although I haven’t been to Paris, ever.”

His eyes widen. “No. No way. You should go at least once. I mean, the perpetual smell of piss on the streets is highly unpleasant to the untrained nose, but the Eiffel is really quite nice, if you stand up close.”

“Huh. Orwell never said.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Fair point.”

“What would you recommend _I_ read?” William looks at her from behind his mug again, and his eyes feel like a test she hasn’t studied for. “I’ve been looking for a good book, but I find that I’m really hard to please. Insanely picky. If it doesn’t grab me from the first pages, I give up.”

“Really.” Azra stares back at him anyway. “What books do you like?”

He shrugs. “Guess.”

“Are you _daring_ me, Will?”

“Perhaps.” He blinks, and his smile falters for a moment. “No one ever calls me Will.”

“So you go around being called William in full, like a bloody prince? That explains so much.”

He tosses back his head in a good-natured laugh which makes Azra’s stomach flutter. “Guess,” he insists again.

“What do I get if I give the right answer?”

“I’ll think about it. But it’ll be something good.”

She takes in his eyes, wondering why they look so blue all of a sudden. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s on.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine receives watches a dance and receives an apology.

_While William and Reggie were off becoming an indefatigable unit at the campus radio station, Jamil Talib and Noel Symonds had a more conventional meet-cute – thanks to an ad in a convenience store for a roommate. Jamil was looking for a new flat; Noel was looking for a new fellow tenant; the meeting place was the nearest McDonald’s to campus, and over Oreo McFlurries and fries, they sealed a bond which would last them through university and the rest of their lives._

Azra tries to write away from the café, now that it’s become a den for sleep-deprived uni students and their textbooks, but the din in the office has been growing loud, even as she blasts Profokiev in her ears. Her neck always aches and her fingers are almost always numb, her bones and muscles groaning with protest as she proofreads her most recent chapter.

She feels like has been writing about Jamil, and Noel, and Jamil-and-Noel for the longest time. She could go on forever; they’ve given her so much material and given her so little grief about it that she would gladly write an entire book about them both. But their stories have threads which always lead in four other directions, and Azra has no choice but to begin writing about the other men.

If only they would stop being idiots for long enough.

“All right, all right, enough with the Strictly Come Dancing,” William declares at the front of the office, where Eoin and Reggie are falling over themselves in a clumsy tango along the space of the desks, his voice indicating anything but seriousness. He holds up a sign scrawled in black marker – 8¾. Reggie howls. “No, no, not after that half-arsed dip you did by Fiona’s desk – who the hell did you think you were kidding with that move? Eoin’s quiff barely touched the chair, much less the floor.”

“Where in the rulebook does it say that? Huh? Show me. Show me.” Reggie presses into William’s space, shoving chest to chest, but William stands there solidly, eyes smiling.

“There’s a rulebook?” Azra shakes her head.

“Of _course_ there’s a rulebook,” Jamil says, fingers tapping his phone screen ferociously. “We have to do our day jobs, you know. So yeah, a rulebook was pretty important. To be fair, William wrote it.”

Noel snorts, looking up briefly from his MacBook. “Listen to yourself. It’s anything _but_ fair.” He gives Azra a plaintive look. “He cheats, Azra. The man cheats, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”

“He cheats at dancing?”

“It’s actually more of a physical challenge. Series of obstacles, you know. This one is the ‘dexterity test’.”

“It’s two men doing the tango, and quite literally.”

Noel shrugs. “Not as easy as it looks.”

“Hey, my mum’s coming over this weekend, Az,” Jamil says, still hunched over his phone. “She wants me to tell you that she’s got your list all ready, so she wants you to start meeting them. Most of them are right here in London, actually.”

“Excuse me?” Noel asks.

“Mum’s setting Azra up on blind dates.”

Noel’s smile falls when he sees her face. “Um, this is good, yeah? Azra? Are you okay?”

She forces a grin despite the pinching sensation in her gut. “Yes, it’s fine. Anyway, I did ask for it.”

“She really did.” Jamil shakes his head emphatically. “You never joke with my mum about these things, Azra. Not wise at all.”

“You never warned me.”

“Aunties take this thing fuckin’ seriously, girl, you know that.”

“Not the aunties I know.”

“Well, they definitely weren’t the Muslim aunties in Birmingham then. These aunties, yeah? They’re like a bloody mob. A gang.”

“Of matchmaking, older ladies.” Noel sounds less than convinced.

“The speed with which my mum attacked this project is unparalleled.” Jamil smirks at Azra. “That’ll teach you to tempt her.”

“I was just joking, Jamil. I didn’t think she’d take me seriously, or I would’ve stopped, wouldn’t I?” Azra abandons all hope of finishing her chapter this afternoon. She feels the beginnings of a headache and butterflies banging against her stomach walls. “I’m just – I wasn’t expecting to be matchmade, or anything like that, really. Blind dates.” She shakes her head.

“They’re not all that bad, if that’s what this is about,” Noel says. “Blind dates can be quite interesting. Fun, too.”

“It’s what I keep telling her.”

“If you two happily-marrieds could shut up, that’ll be great, thanks,” she says, rubbing her temples, glaring when Noel and Jamil exchange grins. “J, you said you wanted to show me that new pancake place off Oxford. Come on then, I’m starving.”

“It’s only open at night, turns out. Could we go for an early dinner, Az? Allie’s got a really early morning tomorrow. We’ll swing by and get you if that’s cool. Noel, you and Jen want to join us?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Noel rubs the close-shaved side of his head. “Jen hasn’t been feeling great, and we’re thinking of staying in. But you should come over for dessert, actually. We’ve got loads of chocolate ice-cream, all stocked up. Every variety you could possibly imagine.”

“We might take you up on that offer, yeah,” Jamil says with a smile. “Azra? 5.30 sound good?”

“Sure, 5.30,” she says, distracted by the crash of Reggie toppling over several chairs. The three of them jump up from their seats, the guys instantly rushing for the mass of limbs. “You all right there, Reg?” she calls.

Reggie’s voice is muffled, “I don’t think I’ve broken anything, but I’ll let you know!”

Jamil hoists a weakly smiling Reggie up while Noel lifts up Eoin, William being rendered useless by laughter. “Not cool, guys,” Azra says. “Not cool.”

“It was _funny_ ,” William insists, making his way to her quickly once Reggie’s standing and smiling. “If you want to write a book about us, you’ll have to learn to accept our sense of humour. It’s one of the secrets to our success, you know.”

Azra wants to punch that smug grin right off his chin. “Shut up. I haven’t had a proper interview with Reggie, so if you could just manage to not break him into seven pieces before I’m done with him, that would be great, thanks.”

“That last bit sounds like a nasty request, put out of context,” Noel says. “Is this invitation-only, or is anyone allowed?” The rest of his words are muffled when William shoves a palm into his mouth.

“Who else haven’t you talked to?” William asks, not flinching when Noel snaps at his fingers. “You’ve talked to Eoin, and you’re constantly with these two,” he gestures to Noel and Jamil, “so that means they’ve probably bared to you their souls like the chumps they are. And you’ve met the London Irish, which means that’s Eoin taken care of.”

“You could say that.” Azra glances at him warily as she saves her working draft. Noel gives up biting at William’s fingers and leaves to join the other men’s impromptu dog pile. “I’m kind of stuck on your introduction. I thought it would work with me writing your parts separately, but I wonder if maybe the book shouldn’t be quite so segmented.” She yanks the back of her hijab, pulling it away from her forehead with a painful tug.

“It’s interesting that you can still see us as separate people,” William says drily. “Most people think we’re pretty much the same person.”

“An amorphous amoeba.”

“I suppose so. Job hazard.”

“It’s a really nice job hazard, then.” Her voice comes out wistful before she could catch herself.

“It sure beats carpal tunnel,” William says, leaning forward and catching her hands in a single move. She looks up at him in surprise, but he keeps his gaze solely on her hands, his fingers deftly massaging her knuckles and wrists. Azra can feel every press and every touch against her skin, sure she can feel the ridges of his prints there, too. “You’ve been shaking your hands and clutching them whenever you’re not in front of your screen.”

She pulls back her hands with a nervous laugh. William blinks, and then groans. “Jesus. I’m so sorry, Azra, I’m forgot about the no-touching thing, and —” He stares at his own hands. The sheer horror on his face makes her laugh.

“It’s fine,” she insists. “Really. I won’t break. It’s just…not encouraged.”

He frowns. “So it’s fine?”

“I mean, this is fine. _This_ was an accident. And it was – it was nice of you, just lovely really, but…”

William leans back against the table. “No physical contact.”

“No.”

“I completely forgot.” He clasps his hands together. “Just promise me you’ll take a break one of these days, have a hands-off-the-keyboard day. That carpal tunnel shit is painful, Azra.”

“Yeah.” She rubs the knuckles of her right hand, a light burn everywhere his fingers went. “You sound terribly familiar with it.”

William nods his head ruefully. “Too many final papers, too much procrastinating. I spent a whole week writing six papers 20 hours a day, and by Day 7 my hands were in splints. I couldn’t pick up a spoon, it was so messed up.”

“Ouch.”

He nods, hair flouncing into his eyes. “It would be terrible if you get it, Azra. I mean, it was fine for me, but I’m not a writer. What do I need my hands for?”

Azra can feel her cheeks warming up, the traitors. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t think I’m really at risk. I don’t end up typing all that much, anyway.”

“Well, I always see you facing the screen and typing something at a very high speed, so unless you have bionic hands, I think I’ll keep looking out for your fingers.” He smiles and looks down at his sneakers – grey Vans. She thinks he has a different pair of Vans for every day of the month. It makes her a little envious. “What were you talking about with J and Noel, anyway? I could see your frown from across the room.”

“I wasn’t frowning.”

“I’ve seen happier children at the dentist.”

She sighs. “It’s my fault, really. I was having dinner with the Talibs the other night, and Karen talked about finding me a good man to settle down with, and I said – jokingly – for her to give it her best shot.” She groans into her hands. “Now she’s on a _mission_.”

William tuts. “That was stupid, Azra. You just don’t mess with the Birmingham aunties.”

“Boy, do I know that now.”

He rests his hip against the table, smirking at her. “So Karen finds you a few guys to date? So what? It’s no big deal. It’s the Islamic way, isn’t it?”

“Um, not exactly, no. I mean, it’s more…acceptable, I guess. But that isn’t the point. The point is that I’m just…rusty.”

“Rusty?”

“I don’t do well with blind dates.”

He grins. “What, you spill food all over yourself each time?”

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “Something about starting all the way from scratch. It scares me.”

“Oh. I think I know what you mean.” He turns his gaze to his shoes.

William had a reputation back in the day as a party animal, going to every shindig he could elbow his way into, but more strikingly, in nearly every photo Azra found of him online, there was his girlfriend Emily, her hand tucked securely into his elbow or fingers interlocking with his. As far as Google Images is concerned, there is no William without Emily.

The last dated photo Azra had found was two years old.

Something about that makes Azra say, “Actually.” He raises his eyebrows, and she tries again, “Actually, the worst part about blind dates is being dismissed.”

“I’m sorry, don’t follow.”

“I mean…I’m not exactly the kind of person who gets a second date. Because of all this, mostly.” She gestures from head to toe with a grin, ignoring the bitter taste in the back of her throat. “I’m kind of an expert at knowing the exact point the guy decides I’m not right for him. There’s always something that gives it away – a polite look, a widening of the eyes.” His eyes widen on cue, and she laughs. “Something about the relative anonymity of blind dates makes everyone pretty frank about what they want, even if they don’t know that they’re saying it. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.”

William shakes his head. “I don’t get it. How can someone who writes such great romances be such a cynic?”

“Hm? Who does? Who are you talking about?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Wait. Are you talking about me? Have you read the stuff _I’ve_ written?”

“Stuff?” he scoffs. “I think you should give yourself some credit, Soo. You’re quite the prolific writer.”

She doesn’t know what to do with the way her insides wrench. “You’re just saying that so I don’t skin you.”

He laughs. “Look, I’m no expert, but I know when I like a story. And I haven’t read a story of yours I haven’t liked. Like that one about the girl who fell in love with that blonde guy.” Their eyes fall on Eoin, who’s sitting in Reggie’s lap and eating a banana. Azra snorts.

“Fun fact: that short story was based on a real person I knew. The actual guy has long, dark curly hair. And a full beard. And dark brown eyes.”

“Ah. But completely real?”

“But completely real.”

“Huh. Are they all autobiographical? Because that story about the red tricycle, I mean…I haven’t cried so much since that time I watched Titanic.”

“ _Titanic_? Really?”

He shrugs. “My mother made me watch it with her when they aired it on the telly. I was a kid. It was either watching it with Mum, or an early bedtime.”

“Goodness.”

“I know. At least now I’ve had my revenge. I emailed her your story. She called me on the phone in tears that night.”

Azra shakes her head. “You’re pulling my leg.”

His eyes wrinkle with laughter. “She demands a rewrite, a proper ending. One where everybody is okay.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

William smiles gently. “Why not? Why not a happy ending?”

She smiles back, feeling herself soften at the way his lips curl. “I’m not sure I can write it as well.”

“I believe you can write anything you want.” He leans over and grabs a pen from the table, his sleeve brushing her arm, the scent of musk and peppermint sweeping past her.

Azra stands up abruptly. “I – I think Allie’s waiting for us. Jamil,” she calls, “you ready yet?”

“Almost,” Jamil hollers back. Azra moves around William quickly, packing her things and putting them into her bag blindly. She nearly stuffs her laptop into her tiny handbag.

“You’re terrible at taking a compliment,” William says.

“I’m Asian, Will. We don’t believe in praise; just a lot of constructive criticism. Actually, just criticism, really.”

His groan transforms into a laugh. “Learn how to take a compliment or two without looking like someone just ate a rat in front of you.”

“Very helpful advice.” She straightens her features and tries for a grotesque grin. “Thank you, Will.” She drops her smile. “How was that?”

His laugh nearly hides his blue eyes entirely. “A work in progress, then.”

“Hey, Az.” Jamil jogs over and nods. “Al’s waiting on Oxford. Says we’ll have to hunt her down if we don’t hurry.” He raises his eyebrows at William. “Everything okay here?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. See you, William.” Azra starts to wave, but William’s just inches away from her; it would seem too weird. So she clutches her hand instead, her fingers uncannily stroking the same paths his fingers took.

“See you, Azra. And, you know what?”

“Hm?”

“You still haven’t tried guessing the books I like.”

Jamil glances at the both of them and turns to his phone instantly, typing furiously with both hands. “I’m giving you two minutes, and that’s it.”

Azra clears her throat, feeling like Jamil’s eyes are still on them, even though his eyes and hands are focused on his screen. She chuckles nervously. “Um, I – I don’t know the first thing about your reading habits, Will. It was only a couple of weeks ago that we were mortal enemies. A woman has got to have more time.”

“Ah. Right.” William runs a hand over his hair, pressing it all down. It’s longer in the back, and it makes her want to run her hands over it, fix it to its usual fluffy self. “Um, I wanted to,” he says, staring at their shoes, “I’ve been meaning to – I was – and _am_ , I truly _am_ – sorry for what I did. Really.”

Azra smiles a little. “You’re not just saying this because you made me cry?”

The way his mouth drops open makes her realise he had no idea. His forehead crumples, and his eyes – “God, no. I had no – _Azra_. I’m sorry.”

She nods. “I know you are,” she whispers, knowing that Jamil has stopped tapping at his phone. “And it’s fine.”

“Is it really?”

Azra nods. She feels more surprised than he looks, that this is true, that she isn’t mad – hasn’t been mad at him for a while now.

“Okay, that’s it.” Jamil taps Azra’s shoulder with his phone. “Your two minutes are up. Let’s go, come on.” He pulls on his roughed-up leather jacket in a sleek move and saunters across the room, looking every inch of cool. “See ya, lads!” he calls into the room as Azra grabs her bags and tries to keep up, and after they’ve crossed the floor, he slows down just enough to match her pace.

“What was that all about, Az?” he asks quietly once they’re crossing the street towards Oxford, where Allie’s waiting for them at the HMV. “When did Willie make you cry?”

She glances at his tense jaw and his eyes which look fiercely ahead. “It’s nothing, J, really,” she insists. “It was a while ago. A few weeks past. It was a dumb thing, and we’re both over it.”

He drops a coin in a homeless man’s waiting cup, never losing pace. “You never told me. You should have told me, or Allie. You know you can.”

“Could I really?”

He shrugs. “I mean, he’s my friend, and I’ve known him longer, but he can be a real arse when he wants to be. I could have talked him down, or tried to be there for you more. I dunno. But something.”

Azra smiles. “It’s fine, J. We’re fine now.”

Jamil finally looks at her for a long moment, even as they weave around other pedestrians. “If you say so.” He shrugs again. “Head for the reggae section, Az. I’ll try the punk aisle and see if she’s there.”

While Azra tries to spot a head of caramel blonde hair between the long aisles, her phone buzzes with a message. It’s an unknown number, and she already dreads a text from one of those Body Shop campaigns she foolishly gave up her number to.

_‘If you won’t guess then maybe you can tell me which books I should read. I look forward to a list of your suggestions. Make them good. Will x’_

Azra laughs, and that’s how Allie hones in on her, in between Bob Marley and Bobby McFerrin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine meets a catalogue of men, and has a moonlit conversation.

_Jamil is your typical modern British citizen – with a father of Pakistani heritage and a mother with Irish blood, and born and raised in Birmingham, his is a life of negotiating cultures, expectations, and dreams._

_Award-winning caterer, Karen Talib insists that he’d always been the quietest of all her children, but he found a way to be present with the family, even if he never said a word. “Always sitting with us and listening to all of us and chipping in here and there – when he moved to Manchester for university, it was near dreadful. His sisters missed him something fierce, and so did his dad and me, but after he came back for term and we heard all his stories from his job at the radio station, we all just knew he’d found his other home. We’re so very proud of him.”_

Sanaa is the one to open the door to Jamil’s home on Saturday afternoon. “Azra!” The fruit basket Azra brought gets squished in the middle of their hug.

“Sanaa!” Azra laughs. “The fruit!”

Sanaa pulls back, her eyes glinting so like her big brother’s, jarring to see on anything other than his face. “J and Allie are out getting even more food. You’ll want to run away now,” she whispers. “Quick, before Mum hears you.”

Azra laughs a little. “Bit too late for that, I think.”

Sanaa waves a hand dismissively. “I’ll cover for you. Explosive diarrhoea always works with mum.” She shakes her head when Azra laughs again.

 “I rang the doorbell.”

“Neighbourhood children playing a prank.”

“Is the list really _that_ bad, Sanaa?”

Sanaa wrinkles her nose. “Mum wouldn’t let me peek, even. She’s got it under lock and key. We’ll have to wait and see. And knowing Mum, it could be – well, it could be anything.”

Azra snorts. “Very helpful, babe.”

Sanaa sighs. “I’m just trying to be as honest as I can.”

She leads them through the house, now familiar to Azra – the Early Morning crew, all ladies, have tea here on Wednesdays, the home near enough to Portland Place for a quick nap, large enough to accommodate them and their lively banter. The décor is cosy, feeling as lived in as it is young – calming pastels in every shade of blue mark the rooms, the furniture comfortable enough to fall asleep in (as the crew members often do), the space open and calm. Verses of the Qur’an in various calligraphic patterns decorate the walls of each room, and the hallways are lined with pictures of both their families, some of them merging into a lovely mess of people captured mid-laugh. It makes Azra feel strangely homesick, even though she can walk around the house and identify the different parts of it her mother wouldn’t have approved.

A rich blend of spices hits them like a wall when they enter the kitchen, covered with food on just about every surface. “Aunty,” Azra says politely, reaching to kiss her hand in the way she was raised to, the way she knows J’s family does as well.

Karen pooh-poohs it away and pulls her into a hug instead, her blouse smelling of onions and garlic and other smells Azra’s older life had, too. “I think I’m rather pungent, darling, I beg your pardon.” Karen’s wrinkled nose is identical to Sanaa’s. “Oh, you didn’t have to bring anything!”

“For dessert,” Azra says. “It’s almost summer and the first berries are here and I got so excited, and I’m not even sure if they’re what you’d call ripe – these berries don’t grow where I’m from, not that I’d know even if they did, since I’m too lazy to be a connoisseur – so maybe we could have them with something actually sweet, like ice cream, or something, I don’t know.”

Karen grins and her daughter laughs. “Nervous, are we? Oh, don’t be, dear. Have some faith in me, eh?” She takes Azra by the shoulders and pushes her into the living room. “Relax, love. Don’t listen to Sanaa – she’s the melodramatic one, hasn’t Jamie told you? Go on, settle down. Sanaa will make us some chai, and I’ll join you in a bit.”

“Iman’s the melodramatic one, Mum,” Sanaa says from the kitchen. “Anyway, I need to go upstairs and check on something for my class on Monday.”

Karen tuts. “Fine, I’ll be here, watching over the prawn biryani. Don’t you go muckin’ about telling Azra the wrong things about the lads, Sanaa!”

“How could I, Mum, when you’re being terribly MI5 about the whole affair?” She winks at Azra as she makes for the stairs. “Grab your tea from the kitchen island. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Karen pulls up a chair and joins her at the island, wiping her hands on her apron (“My chai brings all the betas to the yard” – a custom-made gift from ‘Jamie’, she explains) and adding milk and sugar to Azra’s chai before she could protest. The last time they met, she’d insisted Azra eat at least three portions of everything Azra declared lovely – piles of aloo paratha and palak paneer ended up in Tupperwares in Azra’s fridge, enough to sustain her for days.

“You all right, love?” Karen lays a hand gently on Azra’s, peering at her with open concern.

Azra tries a smile. “I’m fine.” She squeezes Karen’s hand. “Actually, Aunty, I’ve been meaning to—”

She’s cut short by the doorbell, ringing sharply. “Sanaa!” Karen calls. “Would you get the door, please, darling? Thank you! It’s fine, Azra, sit; you’re the guest, love. Sanaa?” The doorbell rings twice, in quick succession. And then it rings repeatedly until Azra can make out a familiar tune – Baa Baa Black Sheep. Karen raises her eyebrows. “Sanaa! I think it’s Allie, maybe their hands are full!”

“I’ll go get it, it’s no problem.” Azra gives her a quick smile and deftly pulls her hand away. She jogs to the door, taking deep breaths. _It’s fine, Az, it’s fine…no need to be a nervous wreck about something as unpredictable as this; use your brain space for more important things, like—_

“About bloody time, J.” William’s eyes look especially blue against his chambray shirt. “Oh. Hello there.”

“Karen’s here,” Azra explains, holding the door just slightly ajar. Not wide enough for entry.

“Ah.” He wipes his feet on the doormat violently before taking off his shoes and ducking under her outstretched arm. “You’re here for the manhunt, led by Karen.”

Azra sighs. “What brings you here? Are Jamil and Allie expecting you? They’re out buying a whole lot of food, on Karen’s orders.”

“Um, not really. I just thought – ah. Is that her in the kitchen?” He stops halfway down the foyer, breathing in deeply. “Smells wonderful.”

“It does,” Azra says. “Prawn biryani, I think she said.”

“Well.” He glances at the kitchen. “I don’t suppose you have room for one more, do you?”

“Um, tonight is supposed to be just a small dinner, I don’t know—”

“Or don’t you want me to be party to the unveiling of your eligible bachelors?” He nudges her with his elbow, just gentle enough to annoy. “Oh, come on. Contrary to once-popular rumours, I’m not actually fishing on that end of the pond, so you don’t have to worry about competition, if you catch my meaning.”

“How could I not, given your utter lack of subtlety?” she grumbles. It truly is unfair how even laughing with his head thrown back doesn’t make him look silly – not at all. He looks annoyingly attractive. Pretty, even. Azra sighs.

“Azra?” Karen calls from the kitchen. “Who’s that with you? It’s not one of the boys, is it?”

“We’re _men_ , Karen,” William insists, moving to the kitchen quickly. By the time Azra reaches him, he’s got Karen in a tight hug. “We’re all pushing past 30 this year – _men_. We love our mothers, but you’ve all got to start letting go.”

“So long as I’m always feeding you like you’re starved and unable to cook for yourselves, you’re boys. _My_ boys.” She ruffles his hair fondly. “How have you been, Willie? What brings you here?”

“I caught a whiff of your cooking from my flat,” he says, with a pout for good measure. “Have mercy on my poor heart, Karen. I only live three streets away.”

Karen laughs and smacks his shoulder. “Silly boy. Stay for dinner, there’s plenty of food.”

He grins. “You’re sure Azra won’t mind? I know she’s the guest of honour, after all.”

Azra rolls her eyes and his grin grows wider when she sighs. “Sure. Why not. The more, the merrier.”

At this, Karen launches into a new melee of activity, opening the door to the pantry wide open and talking aloud about date pudding and butterscotch sauce. To Azra’s utter surprise, William immediately pushes his sleeves up his arms. “Have you got the cream and golden syrup, Karen?” he asks.

At his words, Azra’s training belatedly kicks in. “Please, Karen, if you’re going to make William work as well, then I insist,” she says, but William swiftly catches her shoulders. She holds her breath when he leans in, his eyes smiling though the rest of his face does not.

“Not a chance, Azra,” he says, walking her backwards into the living room, her feet automatically falling in step. “You’re the guest of honour, and you’re going to be off your feet. Besides, Karen’s a bit better with relinquishing her power in the kitchen with me – we’ve had years of experience.” He gently pushes her onto the sofa and turns the TV on in a single move. “Rest. Noel mentioned going kickboxing with you yesterday. Knowing him, how are you still up and walking?”

“Nerves,” she confesses quietly. Her lower back does hurt like hell.

William’s smile is gentle, and she can see why his own gaggle of fans is so vocal about him on tumblr. “I’ve got this, Azra. Just try to sit here and – and _be_ , okay?” He shakes his head with another grin and escapes to the kitchen, sliding the door shut behind him. The telly has on an episode of The Great British Bake-Off, and everything looks so warm and pastel as she sinks deeper and deeper into the cushions, hugging a throw pillow tight. When Jamil and Allie finally arrive home with bags of groceries, waking Azra from her light doze, Jamil joins William for cleaning duty in the kitchen and Allie lands on the sofa next to Azra, pulling Azra’s feet into her lap while Sanaa pulls Allie’s long hair into intricate braids.

“I feel like a henna tattoo,” Azra mutters, watching an episode of LA Ink between her fingers. “Kind of like adding an edge to my whole look. Impermanent and new, like these blind dates.”

“Shut up,” Sanaa mutters back, yanking Allie’s lock of hair into a particularly sharp twist. “It’s just a couple of blokes and a couple of blind dates, what have you got to be so worried about?”

“I don’t know.” Azra bites her lip. “Expectations? Men being dicks? My own general awkwardness in public?”

“You’re awkward? Ow!” Allie yelps, rubbing a spot on her head. “I never noticed.”

“You’re just selectively blind,” Azra says kindly. Allie shrugs.

“I was only joking before, you know.” Sanaa leans in beside Azra, giving her an assuring smile. Too little, too late. “There’s nothing to be terrified about.”

“Isn’t there?” Azra says flatly.

“Karen’s great at everything she does,” Allie says reassuringly. “And that includes picking out men.”

“Well, then how do you explain Sanaa over here?” Azra asks with a laugh. Sanaa reaches over the sofa and kicks her shin.

“She’s holding out for Benedict Cucumberbutter, is the problem.”

“ _Cumberbatch_ – Allie, you love _Sherlock_ as much as I do!”

“At least I don’t make the silly mistake of admitting it.” Allie reaches over and tugs at Sanaa’s fishtail braid, making her yell.

“Ladies,” William says, sliding open the kitchen door with a roll of his eyes. “While we appreciate your enthusiasm for dinner, Karen would like to ask that you maintain a civil demeanour upon sitting at the table, lest you shock the neighbours with your—” He shakes his head at the women. “—loudness.” Azra cheers when Allie gives him the finger. William grins.

Dinner is absolutely delicious, and Azra tries to keep smiling throughout coffee and dessert, eating as much badam kulfi as she can, swallowing the ice cream so quickly that she nearly choked on a stray cardamom pod. By the time they retire to the living room, the telly tuned in to an episode of Poirot, Karen is raring to go. She pulls out a thin book from under the coffee table while Sanaa and Jamil roll out a drumbeat on their knees. Azra shuts her eyes as Karen flips to the first page.

“Aw, hey.” Jamil lets out a low whistle. “Not bad, Mum.”

She could almost hear Karen preen. “You kids never give me enough credit. _Azra_. Open your eyes.”

When Azra finally does, the first thing she sees is a pair of dark eyes which belong to a face both handsome and tanned, with an thoroughly chiselled jaw like the kind one finds in museums and in marble. There are basic, painfully matter-of-fact details listed under his mugshot, like his weight and height and interests.

Azra shoots Karen a sceptical look. She smiles beatifically in reply.

“Mustafa Cersak,” Karen recites. “An engineer, works for the government, 28 years old, likes to go to the gym and play football with the local boys. He lives here in London,” she adds meaningfully.

“Mustafa.” Azra tilts the picture this way and that, almost willing another dimension to his face. She has to admit, it is a very impressive face, even if it fills her belly with dread. “What sort of engineer?” she asks lightly.

“Oh, I’m not sure, actually.” Karen waves the question away with her hand. “But I’m positive you’ll be able to find out more in person.”

“He hasn’t seen a photo of me yet, has he?” Azra asks.

“You are such an idiot,” Allie declares. “You’ll go out with him, won’t you, Azra? I mean, he’s cute.”

“Very cute,” Sanaa chimes in. “Hey Mum, how come I never got a date with him?”

“Like I don’t know you’ve been seeing little Tommy Pandey from down the road.”

Jamil takes a long sip of tea. “They broke up last week, Mum.” He narrowly escapes a whack across the head from Sanaa.

Karen sighs. “Why do you do this to yourself, darling girl? We all know he’s got commitment issues.”

“Mum!”

Azra cuts in, “This Mustafa seems to be attractive, I’ll give him that.”

“There’s only two other guys in this thing,” Sanaa marvels, having recovered quickly. “Mum, you really held back this time.”

“Yes,” Karen says proudly, “there’s only Daniel and Harris left.” Sanaa whistles low and Jamil begins to clap slowly. “I know; I’ve done my best work yet.”

“Oh, God,” Allie mutters, taking the book from Azra and skipping ahead. “ _That_ Harris? Jesus, Karen.”

Azra looks at them questioningly. “What’s wrong? Has he got a reputation, or something?”

“Oh, you bet,” Sanaa says with fervour. “I mean, astaghfirullah.”

Azra takes the book at the page Allie has opened. The guy in the photo is smiling shyly at the camera, his dark brown eyes looking up into the lens, almost as though he could see her. He wears a buzz cut, hair shaved close to his head, with one hand reaching back to scratch his ear. Azra skims his details – Harris el-Mahdi, architect, social volunteer, likes to make coffee and read a book. She looks at Sanaa. “How do you know him?”

“Uh, who doesn’t?” Sanaa shakes her head. “Harris is an absolute legend around here. Went to study at King’s College, breathed new life into the MSA, organised rallies and protests against tuition increases and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, interned with a huge design firm before landing a spot there, making junior partner within a year, and continuing on the student body as a special advisor and organiser.” She lets this sink in, taking a breath. “I mean, he’s completely not my type at all, but even I’ve got a crush on him. Azra, take it from me – resistance is futile.”

“What I don’t understand is how a bloke like that is still single,” Allie declares. “I mean, look at that face. Also, I think I’ve seen him before, haven’t I, Karen?” She raises her eyebrows at Azra. “The lad is tall. Like, really tall. And so completely fit. Total babe. MashaAllah.” She fans herself.

“Amen.” Sanaa nods.

“He sounds…very, very nice, but—” Azra begins, trying to be gracious as she says _No way_ , when she catches William’s eyes. He smiles at her from the sofa, a gentle smile which makes her chest feel too small for her lungs.

“But…?” Karen smiles encouragingly.

Azra takes a deep breath and counts silently to 10. “I…I just need to pop to the kitchen and grab a drink of water,” she says. “If that’s okay.”

Karen nods, her only question in a slight quirk of her eyebrow. “Take your time. The biryani was pretty spicy, I know.”

Azra smiles and leaves quickly, leaving Jamil and Sanaa to their lively discussion of which guy has the better resume and/or facial hair. There’s another photo in the thin album – another man – but Azra isn’t sure she could cope with the idea of another person. Her heart’s already beating fast with anticipation, her mind already going over a million possibilities and every scenario that could happen, so many of them hopeful. But she knows better, she does. Her imagination will always want the unlikely fairy tale first. And her past will always remind her why fairy tales hurt the most.

She chugs down a tall glass of water before pressing the glass to her cheek, willing it to cool down.

“The garden looks lovely at night.” William’s voice echoes slightly in the kitchen. He comes to stand beside her at the sink, looking out the window into the backyard. “J put in some serious hours in this garden, and it’s paid off. All of that,” he continues, pointing to the stone steps leading to a grassy platform, dotted sparingly with light globes, “was three weekends’ worth of piling cement and planting grass.”

“Let me guess: he recruited all of you?”

“I was busy with fantasy football,” he says with just a hint of sheepishness. “But luckily for all of us, it turns out that I’m fantastic at supervising.”

“I don’t doubt that you are,” Azra says, refilling her glass and taking a huge swallow. “What I _do_ doubt is me being anything that those men looking for.”

William turns around to face her, leaning against the island. “Why the hell are you even worrying about that?” he asks, an edge to his usual laconic voice. “Nothing’s even _happened_ yet.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, her face burning up in the semi-dark. She sighs, deciding she really has no room for his annoyance at her issues. “Because I just worry, okay? I’m the ultimate pessimist, always the person counting chickens and eggs before anything is hatched.”

William grins. “That’s an interesting simile.”

“You know what I mean.” She flutters her hands as she tries to find her words, and his smile grows, something she didn’t think possible, his eyes squinting into nothing but laugh lines. “My track record with men gives me the right to worry in advance. I have a history. It is not a good one. And so I anticipate calamity before it happens.”

“Listen to yourself, Soo. Calling this a calamity? And track records? Like what, you have a history of killing men? Or you think they’re not going to want you? Is that it?”

She clears her throat before saying defiantly, “That’s exactly it, yes.”

He chuckles. “Of course, I would advise you against all manner of homicide. And if they don’t want you, it’s fine. If you go on a few dates and they don’t want you, it’s nothing. They’re actually nothing, if you think about it. You barely know them, and they don’t even know you. They don’t matter.”

“But…but listen to Allie and Sanaa talk about them. They’re these great guys, and I… if they don’t want me, then what does that make me?” She slouches over the kitchen sink, gulping down her water fiercely. “Don’t answer,” she mutters.

When William comes to stand by her at the sink, so closely that there’s barely any space between them, she tries not to shrink away. She also struggles not to lean in further towards his warmth – it’s just the cold tiles and the way the kitchen is so far away from the lovely central heating that’s making her want to stand close, crowding him into the sink.

For a moment, they’re both silent. There’s a roar of laughter from Karen’s neighbours. “If they don’t like you after a few dates,” he says finally, slowly, “it’s not because they know you. It’s because they _don’t_ know you.”

She can feel him trying to meet her eyes, but she can’t bring herself to look at him. “Sometimes knowing me isn’t even the half of it,” she mutters instead, and her cheeks go up in flames. When did she become this vulnerable idiot, blurting out her heart to people who once wanted nothing to do with her? Stupid, stupid, stupid as always.

“You think they don’t like the way you look?” William sounds so genuinely confused that Azra looks up. He’s leaning back and looking at her, squinting in the poor light. “Because you wear the hijab?”

She tuts, annoyed at him being dumb – or playing dumb, she can’t tell. “Because I look like this.” She waves a hand at her face. “Not pretty, not photogenic. Just this. Just me. You know?”

“Shit, Azra,” William says in an exhale. “You can’t control what people like.”

“I’ve spent some time in advertising, so you know I don’t really believe that,” she quips. Then she sighs. “You’re right. You’re perfectly right. I just wish, sometimes, that I had a face people would instantly like. Something that looks like a conventional idea of pretty. Something everyone wants.”

“Hey.” He grabs her shoulders and she gasps as he swings them both around so that they’re standing away from the sink. Suddenly there seems to be no air in what little space between them. “You look _fine_. Completely fine, Azra. So stop it. Stop doing this to yourself.”

She tries to be brave and look at him, but it gets too difficult. She stares at his t-shirt collar instead, blinking away tears. His grip is careful and light but firm, and he smells faintly of biryani, and it all makes her want to breathe him in, deeply. “I know. I know. I’m just being stupid about this.”

He sighs. “Yes, you are.” His grip softens, but he doesn’t let go. “And I get it. I really do.”

Him? Insecure about his looks and appeal to the opposite sex? She scoffs at this obvious lie. “No, you don’t.”

His smile is wistful. “You know what’s painful, Azra? When people leave _because_ they know you. Now that – what does that say about you? And what does that say about them?”

 _Emily_. He finally lets go of her shoulders, stepping back slowly, that sad, wistful smile still there. “It means that they weren’t right for you,” she manages to say around the sudden lump in her throat.

William shakes his head with a smile. “Maybe,” he says, sticking a hand in his hair and pulling at it.

Azra tries harder. “It’s all for the best. And good riddance.”

William’s gaze catches hers and holds it. She cannot read his face. “Would you listen to that,” he says. “Someone throwing my own words to my face.”

Azra bites her lip. “Fancy that happening.”

Allie yells from the living room, “Are you done stalling for time, Azra? Look, we’ve done the dirty work of looking at the other guy for you, and we’re thinking you should just go for all three.”

Azra shoots a panicked look at William, but he’s already sauntering out of the kitchen. “Have some mercy, woman,” he drawls. “We’re not all blessed with your appetite.”

“If you’ll just shut up, Elliot,” Allie grumbles, as Jamil leaves a laughing kiss on her cheek. “There is nothing wrong with having a crush on another man, especially when it’s bloody Idris Elba.”

“It’s basically a law,” Azra pipes up. They look over the catalogue a few more times, Jamil and Allie wholeheartedly debating the pros and cons of all three men (the last one looks like an ex-boyfriend of hers, Allie says, and she doesn’t trust his shifty eyes). Karen has made mochas for all of them and Sanaa has reached three different levels of Kwazy Kupcakes on her phone before Azra catches William’s eye. He gives her a tiny shrug and a tinier smile.

“Okay,” Azra says loudly. “I’ll go out with him.”

“What?” Allie stares at her. Karen throws a small punch into the air.

“I’ll go out with him,” she says. “Both of them. Not the last guy, but, um, Mustafa and, um—”

“Harris,” Sanaa supplies helpfully. “Oh God, if it doesn’t work out with you and Harris, could you pass him over to me?”

“You think that’ll make Tommy jealous or something?” Jamil teases.

“I do not know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” Azra says. “I’ll hand you my leftover men, no problem. As long as you give me your leftover mocha. For which I thank you, Karen.”

“It’s all right, love,” Karen says, giving Azra’s hand a warm pat and a smile that explains why she serves cinnamon-y hot mocha for dessert. “Now all that’s left is giving it a go.”


End file.
